HERBERT  ADAMS 
GIBBONS 


PARIS  REBORN 


Boulevard  St.  Denis.     Procession  after  procession  of  recruits  passed  through 

the  boulevards 


PARIS  REBORN 

A    STUDY    IN    CIVIC    PSYCHOLOGY 


BY 

HERBERT  ADAMS  GIBBONS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  NEW  MAP  OF  EUROPE,"  "THE  FOUNDA- 
TION OF  THE  OTTOMAN  EMPIRE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

LESTER  G.  HORNBY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  October,  1915 


TO  ALL 


WHO   REMAINED   IN   PARIS  DURING  THE  TRYING   DAYS 

OF  AUGUST   AND   SEPTEMBER,    1914, 

AND   THUS   SHOWED  THEIR   WILLINGNESS  TO    SHARE 
THE   DISCOMFORTS  AND   DANGERS   OF  THEIR   DEFENDERS, 

AND   REFLECTED  THE   INTREPID   SPIRIT 
OF  THE   FRENCH   AND   BRITISH   ARMIES  BETWEEN    PARIS   AND   THE   ENEMY 


2500887 


It  is  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Rodman 
Wanamaker  that  I  am  allowed  to  republish 
staff  correspondence  to  the  Philadelphia  Even- 
ing Telegraph. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTEK  PAGE 

I  HURRYING    HOME    FROM    FINISTERE       ....       3 

II  PARIS    ANSWERS    THE    CALL    TO    MOBILIZE     .     .     15 

III  THE    CONFLAGRATION     IS    INEVITABLE       ...     30 

IV  THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM     ...     42 
V    REQUISITIONING 54 

VI     LIEGE    HOLDS     FIRM 64 

VII  WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE     .     .     70 

VIII    BLIND,   BUT    THEY    KNEW    IT    NOT 83 

IX    THOSE   THEY   LEFT   BEHIND  THEM 88 

X    AUGUST    NIGHTS 93 

XI    ANONYMITY    AND    INDEMNITY IIO 

XII    FALSE    HOPES Il8 

XIII  THE  FOREIGN  VOLUNTEERS I25 

XIV  PARIS    PRAYS 133 

XV    THE    FIRST    DISILLUSIONMENT I36 

XVI  SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  IS  AT  WORK     .     .     .   I4I 

XVII  THE  AFRICAN  TROOPS  PASS   THROUGH       .      .     .   I52 

XVIII     THE  TAUBEN   BRING      US   NEWS !58 

XIX    THE    GOVERNMENT    LEAVES    US ify 

XX    THE    FROUSSARDS I77 

XXI  PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS     .   I94 

XXII    WAITING 208 

XXIII  AFTER   THE   BATTLE   OF   THE   MARNE     .     .     .      .  2i8 

XXIV  PARIS   AT  NOTRE   DAME 227 

XXV    THE    CAFE    STRATEGISTS 233 

XXVI    THE  DESECRATION  OF  REIMS 239 

XXVII     "ON  DIT" 249 

XXVIII    A   CITY   SUFFERING 259 

XXIX    THE    REFUGEES 282 

XXX     SPIES 293 

XXXI    THE    NEW    KULTURKAMPF 300 

XXXII    AND    THEN    THE    HANDELSKAMPF 306 

XXXIII  RED    TAPE 3II 

XXXIV  SHARING    THE    GLORY 322 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XXXV    THE   CENSORSHIP   AGAIN 328 

XXXVI    THE    EIFFEL    TOWER 33! 

XXXVII    RED  CROSS  AND  RECLAME 340 

XXXVIII    THE   TAUBEN  RETURN 346 

XXXIX  WINTER  CLOTHING  FOR  THE  PIOU-PIOUS   .     .     .356 

XL    THE    BOY    SCOUTS 362 

XLI    JUSQU'AU    BOUT 368 

XLII    VERS    LA    GLOIRE! 37! 

XLIII    RED  CROSS  AND  RED  TAPE 377 

XLIV    THE    FROUSSARDS    COME    HOME 382 

XLV  THE     CHRISTMAS     MIDNIGHT     MASS     AT     SAINT 

SULPICE 389 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Boulevard   St.   Denis.    Procession   after   procession   of   recruits 
passed  through  the  boulevards Frontispiece 

Requisitioning  automobiles  in  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides  .     .     57 

August  Nights.    In  the  Champs-Elysees 95 

The  Seine  at  Notre  Dame 105 

At  a  kiosk  on  the  Grande  Boulevard.    Buying  the  latest  com- 
munique   143 

In  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries.    A  Taube  had  paid  its  usual 
six  o'clock  visit 161 

When  the  aeroplanes  had  certainly  disappeared,  the  people  went 
back  to  their  work 175 

The  Place  Vendome  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.    You  could  not 
get  a  cab.    All  were  bound  for  railroad  stations     .     .     .  185 

At  the  fortifications.    A  tangle  of  barbed  wire 203 

Reims  Cathedral 245 

The  markets  are  full  of  food-stuffs 263 

The  Quai  aux  Fleurs.     As  the  tide  of  battle  rolls  away  from 
Paris,  this  great  city  resumes  its  usual  life 273 

In  the  Latin  Quarter.    En  queue  at  a  soup  cantine     .     .     .  287 
Eiffel  Tower.    The  voice  of  France 337 

In  the  Garden  of  Luxembourg.    The  usual  happy,  care-free 
Sunday  afternoon  crowd 351 

In  the  quarter  of  the  Pantheon 373 


PARIS  REBORN 


PARIS  REBORN 


HURRYING    HOME    FROM    FINISTERE 

Sain  t-Jean-du-Doigt, 
July  thirtieth,  1914. 

NO  more  interesting  visitor  has  dropped  in  upon 
us  at  "Ty  Coz"  than  the  eminent  American 
journalist  who  came  for  tea  this  afternoon.  Every 
line  in  his  alert  face,  the  pose  of  his  head,  the  flash 
of  his  eye,  marked  the  man  who  had  mounted  the 
rungs  of  the  Park  Row  ladder  by  the  ability  of 
keeping  continually  on  the  qui  vive.  He  was  posi- 
tive, like  all  men  of  his  type,  and  confident  in  the 
infallibility  of  his  sixth  sense. 

Conversation  turned  upon  the  anxious  weeks  since 
the  assassination  of  Archduke  Franz  Ferdinand  at 
Sarajevo.  Helen  and  I  were  full  of  apprehension. 
The  immediate  future  appalled  us.  Were  we  never 
to  get  away  from  the  trail  of  blood  we  had  been 
following  ever  since  those  fateful  days  of  April, 
1909,  when  we  saw  the  hopes  of  a  regenerated 

3 


PARIS  REBORN 

Turkey  disappear  in  the  horror  of  the  Armenian 
massacres  at  Adana*?  Was  there  before  us  another 
chapter — this  time  on  a  much  larger  scale — of  agony 
and  misery  through  the  clash  of  nations'?  We 
could  not  help  unburdening  our  hearts  to  the  guest 
who  sat  calmly  sipping  his  tea. 

The  American  journalist  would  have  none  of  our 
presentiment.  "I  have  been  waiting,"  said  he, 
"twenty-five  years  for  your  European  war.  Many 
a  time  it  has  seemed  as  imminent  as  this.  But  it 
will  not  come!  Europe  cannot  afford  a  war. 
There  is  to-day  such  a  close  interrelationship  between 
big  business  in  the  capitals  of  Europe  that  an  actual 
conflict  is  beyond  the  realm  of  possibility.  The 
diplomats  will  fume  and  fuss.  But  they  know  bet- 
ter than  to  plunge  their  countries  into  a  colossal 
struggle  that  will  ruin  Europe  and  set  back  civiliza- 
tion." 

After  our  friend  had  gone,  I  looked  at  my  wife. 
"What  do  you  think  now*?"  I  asked  her. 

"I  think  that  I  am  going  to  take  the  first  train  to- 
morrow morning  to  Morlaix  to  get  some  money," 
she  answered,  "and  that  the  summer  at  the  seashore 
for  which  you  have  been  waiting  and  dreaming  for 
six  years  is  going  to  end  rather  suddenly." 

July  thirty-first. 

Helen  was  as  good  as  her  word.     At  daybreak 

4 


HURRYING  HOME  FROM  FINISTERE 

she  was  off  to  the  nearest  town  where  there  are 
branches  of  the  Paris  banks.  To  persuade  myself 
that  I  was  not  at  all  apprehensive,  and  that  all  this 
war  talk  was  nonsense,  I  spent  the  morning  writing 
about  the  influence  of  Walt  Whitman  upon  the 
younger  contemporary  French  poets.  How  refresh- 
ing it  is  to  be  able  to  close  your  mind  to  rumors 
and  ephemeral  excitement!  The  Bard  of  Camden 
is  a  welcome  refuge  in  times  like  these.  There  is 
no  more  tiring  question,  even  when  you  ask  it  of 
yourself,  than,  "What  do  you  think  is  going  to  hap- 
pen?' 

The  afternoon  was  glorious.  Among  the  summer 
people  none  was  caring  about  how  Servia  answered 
the  ultimatum  of  Austria-Hungary,  or  what  the  Ger- 
man ambassador  at  St.  Petersburg  was  saying.  In 
the  little  shop,  the  Paris  newspapers  lay  on  the 
counter.  They  had  just  arrived  from  Plougasnou. 
But  the  people  from  the  hotel  across  the  road  were 
not  crowding  around,  eager  for  the  latest  word. 

I  took  the  children  in  the  donkey-cart  to  meet  the 
train  from  Morlaix.  A  laughing  group  of  young 
people,  French  and  English,  were  just  leaving  the 
hotel  with  bathing-suits  and  a  tea-basket.  As  we 
crossed  the  brook,  a  voice  hailed  me  from  the 
bushes.  I  persuaded  the  donkey  to  stop.  Looking 
down,  I  saw  a  member  of  the  London  Stock  Ex- 
change busily  painting  a  landscape. 

5 


PARIS  REBORN 

"  Didn't  you  go  back  to  England  yesterday1?"  I 
asked  in  surprise. 

"Why1?"  he  answered,  and  paused  to  light  a  ciga- 
rette. 

The  shrill  whistle  of  the  train  on  the  hill  warned 
me  to  hurry.  I  was  glad,  for  it  is  unpleasant  to  be 
taken  as  an  alarmist.  Perhaps  I  was  a  fool.  The 
future  is  always  uncertain.  It  is  just  when  you  are 
surest  that  you  make  the  biggest  mistakes.  I  can 
imagine  no  more  disheartening  situation  than  that 
of  a  pupil  in  the  old  Hebrew  school  of  Prophets — 
unless  it  be  going  out  to  practise  the  profession 
after  graduating. 

As  she  alighted  from  the  train,  Helen  said  to  me, 
"War  is  inevitable.  You  will  have  to  work  hard 
and  fast,  if  you  want  to  finish  your  History  of  the 
Ottoman  Empire  while  there  is  still  an  Ottoman  Em- 
pire. The  crash  is  coming." 

She  had  got  her  money  just  twenty  minutes  be- 
fore word  arrived  by  telegraph  to  cash  no  more  checks 
on  Paris.  Gresham's  law  was  at  work  in  Morlaix. 
Over  night  money  had  disappeared.  No  one  would 
change  a  bank-note.  The  earth  seemed  to  have  swal- 
lowed up  all  the  gold  and  silver.  Business  was  com- 
pletely stopped  until  small  paper  money  could  arrive 
from  Paris. 

The  babies  caught  the  drift  of  our  conversation. 
Christine,  who  is  scarcely  more  than  five,  looked  up 

6 


HURRYING  HOME  FROM  FINISTERE 

and  said,  'There  are  n't  going  to  be  any  more  sol- 
diers hurting  each  other,  are  there*?" 

When  we  were  driving  into  the  village,  an  Ameri- 
can woman  stopped  us. 

"Do  give  me  your  advice,"  she  said.  "I  have 
places  reserved  for  New  York  next  week  on  the 
Vaterland  for  Thursday  and  the  'France  for  Satur- 
day. Which  do  you  think  I  had  better  take*?" 

"You  have  a  more  important  question  than  that 
before  you,"  I  answered.  "Have  you  got  any 
money*?" 

"Money4?  What  do  you  mean*?  I  have  my  let- 
ter of  credit,  and  travelers'  checks  besides." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  it  had  ever  been  sug- 
gested to  this  woman  that  she  might  lack  money.  I 
could  not  explain  to  her  that  bankable  paper  was  for 
the  time  being  no  good  to  her.  She  smiled  incredu- 
lously. We  left  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  She  looked  offended,  and  her  eyes  echoed 
what  her  lips  had  kept  insisting,  "I  can  always  get 
all  the  money  I  want."  * 

On  the  Brest-Paris  Express, 

Saturday  noon,  August  -first. 
We  reached  Morlaix  just  in  time  for  a  hurried 

1 1  learned  later  that  this  woman  rode  across  France  to  Paris  in 
a  motor  car  the  following  week.  When  she  arrived  at  the  Astoria 
Hotel  on  the  Champs-Elysees,  where  her  trunks  were  awaiting 
her,  she  had  two  francs  in  her  pocket.  She  found  the  hotel  shut, 

7 


PARIS  REBORN 

bite  at  the  hotel.  Helen  came  over  to  the  station  to 
see  me  off.  After  I  had  registered  my  baggage,  we 
entered  the  waiting-room.  A  guard  of  soldiers  had 
stacked  their  arms  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Is  it  mobilization4?"  I  asked  the  corporal. 

"Not  yet,"  he  responded.  "We  were  sent  here 
just  an  hour  ago.  Detachments  have  also  been  sta- 
tioned at  each  end  of  the  bridge  across  the  valley." 

So  I  am  off  for  Paris.  It  does  not  seem  real,  this 
sudden  ending  of  my  vacation  in  midsummer.  I  re- 
member vividly  the  day,  scarcely  more  than  a  year 
ago,  I  spent  on  board  the  Austrian  battleship  Ra- 
detzky^  in  the  harbor  of  Gravosa.  After  lunch  in 
the  wardroom,  the  Austrian  officers  spoke  freely  to 
me  about  what  was  ahead  of  their  government  if 
Servia  was  successful  in  the  Second  Balkan  War, 
just  entered  upon  two  days  before  against  Bulgaria. 
When  I  got  back  to  the  hotel  that  night,  I  found  a 
telegram  asking  me  to  leave  immediately  for  Bel- 
grade to  follow  the  Servian  operations.  I  did  not 
go.  For  there  was  a  baby  ten  weeks  old  in  Paris, 
and  her  father  had  not  yet  seen  her.  A  year  ago 
I  went  away  from  war  to  Paris  to  my  family.  To- 
day I  am  going  away  from  my  family  to  Paris  to 
war. 

The  only  other  occupants  of  the  compartment  are 

and  was  greeted  with  the  news  that  the  proprietor  had  been  put  in 
jail  as  a  German  spy. 

8 


HURRYING  HOME  FROM  FINISTERE 

a  young  Breton  couple  who  have  been  married  three 
weeks.  He  has  a  position  in  Paris,  and  is  taking 
her  for  the  first  time  away  from  her  home  to  the 
Great  City.  They  tell  me  about  the  apartment  that 
he  has  fitted  up  for  her,  and  ask  me  if  I  know  the 
quarter  in  which  they  are  to  live. 

But,  since  they  left  St.  Pol-de-Leon  this  morning, 
the  first  thought  of  disaster  has  crept  into  their 
minds.  He  will  be  called  out  on  the  second  day, 
if  there  is  a  mobilization.  They  ask  me  the  old 
question,  "Do  you  think  there  will  be  war*?"  The 
answer  they  want  is  a  negative.  What  am  I  to  say1? 

Rennet,  2  p.  m. 

Coming  into  the  station,  we  passed  barracks  and 
an  artillery  park.  The  wheels  were  off  the  gun  car- 
riages, and  men  were  greasing  the  hubs.  Officers 
were  inspecting  horses. 

The  bride  has  asked  me  to  see  if  I  can  buy  a  news- 
paper. She  does  not  want  her  husband  to  leave  her. 
I  try  to  cheer  her  by  pointing  out  that  the  station 
employees  are  not  wearing  the  brassard?  which  is  the 
first  sure  sign  of  mobilization  on  the  railway.  Let 
us  have  hope  as  long  as  possible. 

Vitre,  4.15  p.  m. 

Here  the  news  has  reached  us.  As  our  train  en- 
tered the  station,  the  call  for  a  general  mobilization 

1  Arm-band. 


\ 


PARIS  REBORN 

was  being  posted.  I  do  not  dare  to  leave  my  place 
to  read  the  proclamation.  I  know  well  that  I  should 
never  get  a  seat  on  this  train  again.  The  crowds  on 
the  platform  are  enormous.  Some  men  entering  the 


compartment  say  they  have  been  waiting  at  the  sta- 
tion since  morning  for  the  word  to  come.  At  the 
very  moment  given  in  their  instructions,  they  want 
to  be  at  their  recruiting  stations.  There  is  exulta- 
tion on  their  faces.  They  seem  glad  to  go.  The 
moment  for  which  they  have  been  living  ever  since 
they  were  born  has  come.  The  feeling  communi- 
cates itself  to  me. 

But  I  look  across  to  my  companions,  who  had  been 
anticipating  this  mobilization  call,  not  as  a  thing  of 
joy,  but  as  the  death  knell.  There  will  be  no  honey- 
moon in  the  little  nest  that  he  has  prepared  for  his 
bride.  He  must  go  within  forty-eight  hours.  Her 
head  is  on  his  shoulder.  The  slender  hand  with 
fingers  clasped  tightly  round  his  wrist  shows  what 
she  is  passing  through. 

Saturday,  midnight. 

I  have  reached  this  little  hotel  near  the  Gare  du 
Montparnasse,  and  am  thankful  to  have  found  a 
room. 

From  Vitre  to  Paris  the  train  was  no  longer  the 
ordinary  Paris-Brest  express.  It  was  transformed 
into  a  military  train,  jammed  full  of  men  answering 

10 


HURRYING  HOME  FROM  FINISTERE 

the  call  to  arms.  At  every  station,  we  were  besieged 
by  crowds  of  reservists,  until  there  was  no  more  room 
and  the  engine  could  draw  no  more  extra  carriages. 
Then  we  crept  slowly  towards  Paris,  bearing  our 
offering  of  human  lives.  One  could  feel,  mingled 
with  the  effervescence,  the  excitement,  the  joy  of  ap- 
proaching conflict,  an  undertone  of  anguish  and  sor- 
row, strikingly  typified  in  that  white-faced  bride 
who  in  the  course  of  the  day's  journey  had  seen  her 
goal  of  happiness  changed  to  an  imprisonment  of 
weary  waiting  in  a  strange  city. 

An  hour  ago  we  reached  the  Gare  du  Montpar- 
nasse.  Fete-day  crowds  in  a  Paris  railway  station 
are  worse  than  a  Bank  Holiday  crowd  trying  to  get 
out  of  London.  But  nothing  in  my  experience  has 
approached  the  Gare  du  Montparnasse  as  I  found  it 
this  evening.  Every  one,  including  officials,  seemed 
to  be  moving  in  some  direction  without  knowing 
where  or  why  he  was  walking.  Every  one  was  talk- 
ing to  every  one  else  about  the  subject  which  made 
the  trial  of  Madame  Caillaux  seem  a  hundred  years 
in  the  past. 

I  had  foolishly  registered  my  baggage  at  Mor- 
laix.  When  I  went  into  the  baggage-room,  I  soon 
saw  the  hopelessness  of  waiting.  "If  you  want  your 
baggage,"  said  the  sole  official  I  could  buttonhole, 
"the  only  way  you  '11  get  it  is  to  go  out  on  the  plat- 
form and  find  it  yourself."  I  took  a  look  at  the  plat- 

11 


PARIS  REBORN 

form.  The  vans  had  been  emptied  pell-mell. 
Mountains  of  trunks  and  bags  loomed  up  before  me. 
I  should  have  needed  a  ladder  or  a  crowbar — prob- 
ably both.  So  I  decided  to  allow  the  hotel  porter 
to  wrestle  with  the  problem  to-morrow. 

The  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus  was  almost  empty. 
When  I  had  gone  down  the  outer  stairway,  and 
passed  into  the  Place  de  Rennes,  I  caught  my  first 
glimpse  of  Paris  in  wartime.  The  great  square  was 
black  with  people.  Soldiers  had  cleared  the  terrace 
in  front  of  the  station.  The  entrances  were 
guarded.  A  host  of  men,  each  with  his  womenfolk 
around  him,  formed  a  long  line,  waiting  to  enter. 
Paris  was  already  responding  to  the  call.  Women 
were  already  rising  to  the  occasion.  Enthusiasm, 
confusion,  and  lamentation  are  the  three  words  which 
best  describe  what  I  saw.  But  enthusiasm  predom- 
inated. 

On  the  wall,  beside  the  exit  door,  my  eye  caught 
the  huge  poster  whose  words  I  had  been  burning  to 
read  ever  since  leaving  Vitre. 

ARMY  OF  LAND  AND  ARMY  OF  SEA 

ORDER 
OF  GENERAL  MOBILIZATION 

By  decree  of  the  President  of  the  Republic,  the 
mobilization   of   the   armies   of   land   and   sea   is 
ordered,   as   well   as   the   requisition  of   animals, 
12 


HURRYING  HOME  FROM  FINISTERE 

carriages  and  harness  necessary  to  the  supplying 
of  these  armies. 

THE  FIRST  DAY  OF  THE  MOBILIZATION  IS 

Sunday,  August  2,   1914. 

Every  Frenchman,  subject  to  military  obliga- 
tions, must,  under  penalty  of  being  punished  with 
all  the  rigor  of  the  laws,  obey  the  prescriptions 
of  his  book  of  mobilization. 

Subject  to  this  order  are  ALL  MEN  not  at 
present  under  the  flag. 

The  civil  and  military  Authorities  are  respon- 
sible for  the  execution  of  this  decree. 

THE  MINISTER  OF  WAR.  THE  MINISTER 
OF  THE  NAVY 

The  date  was  inserted  with  a  rubber  stamp. 
These  posters  had  long  been  printed.  In  every  com- 
mune in  France,  in  Corsica,  in  Algeria,  and  in  the 
distant  colonies,  in  every  railway  station,  in  every 
post-office,  they  had  been  tucked  away  for  years, 
waiting  for  this  moment  that  was  bound  to  come. 

A  man  who  had  arrived  on  my  train  crowded  up 
beside  me.  He  read  the  poster  through  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  I  watched  him  curiously.  His  only 
comment  was  the  brief  but  expressive  phrase,  un- 
translatable, "Ca  y  estT  He  then  took  from  his 
pocket  the  little  "book  of  mobilization"  which  every 
Frenchman  carries,  and  looked  to  see  what  he  was 
to  do,  and  where  he  was  to  go.  This  man  typified 

13 


PARIS  REBORN 

all  France  on  the  evening  of  August  first.  If 
France  is  not  ready,  it  will  be  munitions  and  not 
soldiers  that  are  lacking. 

Another  small  poster  announced  that  the  military 
authorities  had  taken  over  the  railways,  and  that 
passenger  services  were  suspended.  I  had  come 
through  from  Finistere  on  the  last  train. 

As  I  crossed  the  Place  de  Rennes  to  find  a  hotel, 
my  way  was  barred  at  every  step  by  family  groups. 
Women  and  children,  old  and  young,  were  clinging 
desperately  to  those  who  were  waiting  to  enter  the 
station  on  their  way  to  suffering  and  death.  I  do 
not  say  to  glory,  for  I  have  witnessed  these  scenes 
at  the  old  Sirkedji  station  in  Constantinople,  at 
Sofia,  at  Salonika,  at  Athens  and  at  Cettinje,  and  I 
have  lived  through  their  aftermath.  War  is  the 
placing  of  human  affections  upon  the  altar.  The 
sacrifice  acceptable  in  the  sight  of  Mars  is  the  broken 
woman  turning  homeward  when  the  man  has  gone. 


II 

PARIS    ANSWERS    THE    CALL    TO    MOBILIZE 

Sunday ',  midnight,  August  second. 

A  MAN  ought  to  be  disgusted  with  himself  for 
not  waking  until  nine  o'clock  on  the  most 
memorable  day  of  modern  history.  It  was  some 
minutes  before  I  could  adjust  myself  to  where  I  was, 
and  why  I  was  there.  The  events  of  the  journey 
from  Finistere,  more  than  the  journey  itself,  had 
proved  a  severe  drain  on  nervous  eneugy.  But  when 
I  looked  at  the  clock,  I  was  up  with  a  start.  I  had 
no  baggage,  so  my  toilet  was  quickly  accomplished. 

As  I  stepped  out  of  the  elevator,  a  woman  spoke 
to  me. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  asked,  "but  are  you  an  Ameri- 
can1?" 

"I  certainly  am,"  I  answered. 

"How  are  you  planning  to  get  out  of  Paris'?  The 
clerk  at  the  desk  seems  too  busy  to  tell  me  more  than 
that  trains  are  not  running,  and  the  hall  porter 
stupidly  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  pretends  not  to 
understand  English.  I  must  get  to  London  or  some- 
where. They  say  the  Germans  are  coming,  and  that 
we  shall  be  besieged." 

15 


PARIS  REBORN 

"How  am  I  planning  to  get  out?  Why,  I  just 
got  in  with  difficulty  last  night." 

Perhaps  it  was  rude  not  to  satisfy  the  astonished 
question  in  her  eyes,  but  I  was  thinking  of  other 
things.  I  hurried  into  the  reading-room.  There 
was  the  Matin,  with  the  headline  across  the  front 
page, 

GERMANY  DECLARES  WAR  ON  RUSSIA 

The  Rubicon  is  crossed.  A  lea  jacta  estl  All 
Europe  will  be  soon  in  arms.  I  can  see  only  one 
thing  with  certainty.  It  was  foreshadowed  on  a 
Sunday  morning  in  November,  two  years  ago,  when 
I  stood  on  the  hill  behind  my  home  in  Constantinople 
and  heard  the  Bulgarian  cannon  thundering  at  Tcha- 
taldja.  It  is  inevitable  now.  The  Crescent  will 
wane  no  more,  for  there  will  be  no  more  Crescent  to 
wane.  The  new  map  of  Europe,  drawn  in  accord- 
ance with  the  decisions  of  this  gigantic  struggle,  will 
have  no  place  for  Turkey. 

Across  the  street  from  the  open  door  of  the  hotel 
I  saw  a  debit,  where  one  finds  coffee  for  two  sous,  and 
delicious  croissants  or  petits  pains  for  a  sou.  I  had 
in  my  pocket  just  fifty  centimes  (ten  cents),  so  I  was 
saved  from  enduring  lukewarm  cafe •  au  lait  served 
by  a  supercilious  waiter  who  would  lift  his  eyebrows 
if  you  asked  for  more  than  one  roll  and  more  than  a 
quarter-teaspoonful  of  butter.  You  do  not  know 

16 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

the  life  of  Paris  until  you  have  learned  to  lean  your 
elbows  on  the  zinc  counter  of  a  debit,  and  to  order 
a  two  sou  cup  of  coffee  without  allowing  the  bar- 
tender to  work  off  on  you  with  it  a  petit  verre  of  ex- 
pensive brandy. 

It  was  a  woman  with  swollen  eyes,  whose  tears 
were  still  falling,  that  served  me.  She  explained 
that  one  boy  was  doing  his  military  service  at  Belfort, 
and  the  other  had  just  left  half  an  hour  ago  for 
Toul. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "is  there  any  hope  that  it  will 
not  be  war?  If  Austria  attacks  Servia,  and  Russia 
attacks  Austria,  why  should  that  mean  that  France 
must  attack  Germany  and  my  boys  go  to  be  killed"? 
Servia  is  nothing  but  a  name  to  me.  And  yet  I  must 
suffer  this.  Tell  me,  is  such  a  thing  possible?  Is 
it  really  war  for  us  because  Germany  has  declared 
war  on  Russia1?" 

There  was  nothing  I  could  say.  What  explana- 
tion would  have  satisfied  that  mother's  heart  of  the 
reasonableness  of  her  sacrifice"?  At  that  moment,  a 
newsboy  came  along  the  street,  calling  "La  Patrie! 
La  Patrie!"  This  was  an  evening  newspaper,  and 
here  it  was  not  yet  ten  in  the  morning.  I  went  to 
the  door,  and  bought  a  copy.  My  answer  was  in  the 
headline. 

A  German  cavalry  patrol  had  crossed  the  border 
at  Joncherey,  and  killed  the  corporal  commanding 

1? 


/  PARIS  REBORN 

the  post.  Near  Longwy,  another  violation  of  French 
territory  is  reported.  Across  the  zinc,  I  read  the 
news  to  the  mother  in  tears.  Her  expression 
changed.  The  face  grew  hard.  A  feverish  hand 
grasped  my  wrist.  "Monsieur,"  she  said,  "I  am 
ashamed  of  my  weakness.  Ever  since  I  was  a  little 
girl  I  have  known  that  it  would  be  my  duty,  my  priv- 
ilege indeed,  to  bear  sons  to  save  France  from  the 
Germans.  I  am  glad  that  I  have  two !" 

-At  the  telegraph  window  in  the  post-office,  I  found 
a  notice  stating  that  telegrams  must  bear  no  code  ad- 
dress and  no  code  words,  and  that  they  are  accepted 
only  after  having  been  vised  at  police  headquarters. 
This  censorship!  How  often  I  have  wrestled  with 
it,  and  enjoyed  with  keen  zest  the  game  of  matching 
wits  with  the  clever  stupidity  and  the  obstinacy  of 
officialdom.  But  my  experience  heretofore  had  al- 
ways been  with  the  southern  temperament,  with 
Spaniards,  with  Italians,  Greeks  and  Turks.  I  had 
never  failed  to  find  some  loophole.  It  took  me  less 
than  two  hours  to-day  to  realize  that  here  was  a  dif- 
ferent proposition.  Rien  a  dis cuter,  Monsieur! 
There  will  be  no  "indiscretions"  in  this  war.  Only 
hopeless  banalities  will  go  out  over  the  wires.  News 
— as  we  understand  that  word  in  America — is  taboo. 

I  confess  that  my  greatest  disappointment  was  not 
that  I  am,  for  the  moment,  at  least,  relieved  of  the 
feverish  tension  of  censors  and  cables,  but  that  I 

18 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

could  not  use  the  excuse  of  a  cable  for  getting  a  hun- 
dred franc  note  changed.  I  had  only  two  copper 
sous.  The  bank-notes  in  my  pocket  were  worth  ab- 
solutely nothing.  At  every  cafe,  an  intentionally 
huge  sign  on  the  terrace  invites  you  to  refrain  from 
eating  and  drinking  unless  you  are  able  to  give  the 
exact  change.  It  was  either  go  back  to  the  hotel, 
where  I  would  not  have  to  pay  cash,  or  go  hungry. 
I  had  a  vision  of  the  hotel  corridor  crowded  with  ex- 
cited tourists.  "Do  you  mind  telling  me  just  in  a 
few  words  what  all  this  war  is  about1?"  "Will  the 
American  Express  Company  cash  their  checks'? 
What  shall  I  do  if  I  can  get  no  money?"  "Do  you 
think  that  Cook's  will  be  open  to-morrow?"  There 
is  a  limit  to  what  one  is  willing  to  do — even  for  a 
meal. 

Who  would  be  in  town  on  a  Sunday  in  midsum- 
mer'? It  was  then  that  I  got  a  happy  inspiration. 
The  Lawyer,  of  course !  Down  the  Boulevard  Ras- 
pail  I  hurried;  for  it  was  high  noon,  and  with  the 
happy  inspiration  came  the  fearful  thought  that  he 
might  already  have  gone  out.  It  was  not  only  that 
he  would  stake  me  to  lunch.  The  Lawyer's  heart 
is  matched  by  his  brain.  Neither  could  be  bigger. 
No  American  knows  Europe  better.  No  American 
loves  France  more  passionately.  With  whom  could 
I  spend  a  more  illuminating  afternoon  on  the  first 
day  of  the  mobilization? 

19 


PARIS  REBORN 

I  found  the  Lawyer  just  returning  from  a  spin  on 
his  bicycle  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  No  war  could 
change  his  habits.  I  buried  myself  in  the  Bergson 
lying  open  on  his  study-table  while  he  took  his 
shower. 

We  lunched  at  a  cafe  opposite  the  "Boul  Mich" 
entrance  of  the  Luxembourg.  The  fountain  of 
Marie  de  Medici  was  splashing  away  as  usual.  The 
ordinary  Sunday  crowds  were  passing  through  the 
gates  into  the  garden.  But  there  were  no  autobusses, 
and  tramways  were  few. 

After  lunch  we  sat  on  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe 
d'Harcourt  for  our  coffee.  At  the  Lycee  Saint- 
Louis  across  the  street,  the  young  men  mobilized  for 
the  engineer  service  were  being  received.  A  number 
in  uniform  stood  around  the  door,  and  newcomers 
were  greeted  with  cheers.  Some  of  them  were  hav- 
ing a  farewell  glass  with  the  Fifis  and  Mimis  at 
tables  around  us.  There  was  no  sadness,  no  feel- 
ing of  depression.  The  students  were  full  of  en- 
thusiasm. To  youth  war  is  an  adventure,  and 
those  who  go  are  "lucky  dogs."  We  could  see  the 
envious  eyes  of  the  too  young,  looking  at  the  uni- 
forms of  the  old  enough. 

As  for  the  Fifis  and  Mimis,  a  sudden  parting,  a  col- 
lapse of  the  house  of  cards,  is  not  a  new  experience 
born  of  the  war.  It  is  part  of  the  life  of  the  Quar- 
ter. If  they  were  not  willing  "to  play  the  game" 

20 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

with  a  stiff  upper  lip,  they  would  not  be  there. 
They  were  playing  it,  all  right,  this  afternoon. 

When  we  reached  the  Rue  Soufflot,  on  our  way 
back  to  the  Luxembourg  to  see  if  by  any  chance  there 
would  be  music,  association  made  me  think  of  the 
Artist.  Could  he  possibly  have  gotten  back  this  soon 
from  the  little  town  near  Douarnenez,  away  at  the 
end  of  Finistere,  where  I  had  left  him  ten  days  ago? 
Had  he  seen  the  storm  coming1?  We  climbed  up 
behind  the  Pantheon  to  the  Rue  Descartes.  No,  the 
concierge  had  heard  nothing  from  the  Artist,  but 
would  see  that  he  got  my  message  immediately  upon 
his  return.  I  left  as  my  address  the  hotel  where  I 
was  stopping  for  the  moment.  For  I  felt  sure  that 
he  would  get  back  to  Paris  somehow.  Trust  the 
Artist !  His  head  is  as  clever  as  his  hand,  and  that 
is  saying  a  good  deal. 

A  quiet,  peaceful  afternoon  we  spent,  the  Lawyer 
and  I,  near  the  large  basin  by  the  Palais  du  Senat. 
The  Luxembourg  is  never  prettier  than  in  midsum- 
mer with  its  riot  of  color  around  the  Palais  and  in 
the  parterre.  The  weather  was  glorious.  The 
merry  ring  of  children's  laughter  and  the  beauty  of 
God  in  the  flowers  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  the  news 
the  camelots  were  crying  on  the  boulevard.  It 
seemed  as  if  we  had  awakened  from  an  ugly  and  re- 
pellent dream  into  the  reality  of  life.  Why  does  not 
the  joy  of  living  make  impossible  the  lust  of  killing? 

21 


PARIS  REBORN 

Why  does  not  the  influence  of  creation  master  the 
madness  of  destruction? 

The  spell  was  soon  broken.  There  were  too  many 
women  passing  us  who  revealed  their  overwhelming 
thought  by  the  way  they  held  the  arm  of  their  es- 
corts. Whether  it  was  a  mother  with  her  big  boy, 
a  wife  with  her  husband,  a  girl  with  her  lover,  the 
clutch  was  the  same.  Clutch — no  other  word  de- 
scribes it.  There  was  no  music.  We  wanted  none. 
It  would  have  been  a  mockery.  When  Paris  is  in 
agony,  she  continues  to  smile.  But  she  does  not 
sing.  Music  would  only  help  the  flow  of  tears,  and 
tears  unnerve. 

And  yet,  there  was  no  depression.  One  felt  in  the 
atmosphere  rather  that  grim,  triumphant  exultation 
of  suffering  where  the  cry  of  the  lost  soul  is  drowned 
by  the  cry  of  the  redeemed,  where  the  joy  of  the  sacri- 
fice transcends  the  pain  of  it.  There  kept  running 
through  my  head  the  trio  in  the  fifth  act  of  Faust. 
Gounod  must  have  lived  through  the  first  day  of  a 
mobilization. 

The  Lawyer,  from  his  vast  storehouse  of  know- 
ledge, was  calling  forth  the  reasons  why.  His  face 
was  illumined  as  he  spoke  of  the  redemption  of  Al- 
sace and  Lorraine,  and  that  led  him — with  some  fal- 
tering— to  the  subject  nearest  and  dearest.  When 
he  presented  the  brief  for  Poland,  and  suggested  the 
possible  effects  of  the  war,  he  seemed  to  be  answering 

22 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

the  mute  question  of  the  passers-by,  which  had  com- 
municated itself  to  me.  Only  the  surgeon's  knife 
can  cure  the  disease.  Women  of  France,  the  sacri- 
fice will  not  be  in  vain.  Life  is  given  for  others. 
Else  the  world  would  have  no  ideals. 

The  Lawyer  left  me  at  sunset.  He  would  not  go 
across  to  the  grands  boulevards,  not  he.  On  a  night 
like  this?  I  felt  that  I  had  to  excuse  my  youthful 
temerity  and  willingness  to  mingle  with  crowds 
on  the  ground  of  professional  duty. 

"I  must  see  what  is  going  on,"  I  said. 

"Slippers  and  dressing-gown  and  Bergson  for  me," 
he  replied. 

I  had  the  good  fortune  to  run  into  one  of  my  old 
students  from  Constantinople,  who  had  come  to  Paris 
for  law,  but  was  now  thinking  of  enlisting.  He  re- 
sponded with  alacrity  to  the  suggestion  of  the  Boule- 
vards. We  went  down  into  the  subway  and  came 
to  light  again  at  the  Gare  de  1'Est. 

On  this  first  evening  of  the  mobilization,  the  Gare 
de  1'Est  was  the  heart  of  France.  The  reservists 
were  leaving  from  all  the  stations  to  report  at  their 
respective  garrison  towns.  But  from  the  Gare  de 
1'Est  regiment  after  regiment  of  soldiers  actually 
under  the  flags,  the  men  of  the  "first  line"  who  are 
called  upon  to  ward  off  the  first  brusk  attacks  of 
the  giant  while  France  is  mobilizing  behind  the  ram- 
part of  their  bodies,  were  being  hurried  off.  To 

23 


PARIS  REBORN 

them  the  battlefield  was  something  of  to-night,  of 
to-morrow,  and  not  of  weeks  ahead,  when  the  diplo- 
mats may  have  the  questions  at  issue  settled  out  of 
court.  So  here  we  saw  the  soldiers  who  were  going 
straight  to  the  line  of  fire. 

Signs  at  the  outer  gates,  "Militaries  pour  Nancy" 
and  "Militaries  pour  Belfort,"  made  one  think  of 
unredeemed  Metz  and  Strasbourg  beyond.  The 
crowd  was  dense  and  noisy.  It  was  hard  for  the  sol- 
diers who  arrived  singly  to  work  their  way  through 
to  the  gate.  There  was  much  grasping  of  hands, 
some  embracing,  and  a  continuous  refrain  of  au 
revoir,  bonne  chance,  and  bon  courage.  So  much 
liquor  was  being  drunk  that  the  atmosphere  was  of 
hilarity  rather  than  of  confidence.  The  crowd 
around  the  gates  was  rather  hoodlum  than  typically 
Parisian. 

As  we  withdrew,  wild  yells  and  the  crash  of 
falling  glass  came  from  a  big  cafe  directly  opposite 
the  station.  It  was  all  over  when  we  got  there. 
Waiters  had  tried  to  overcharge  some  soldiers  or 
reservists.  Grabbing  chairs  for  weapons,  they 
cleaned  out  the  cafe,  and  smashed  the  tables  and 
every  bit  of  glass  in  the  place.  To  give  good 
measure,  the  chairs  were  thrown  through  the 
windows  of  the  hotel  on  the  first  and  second 
stories. 

I  have  never  seen  such  complete  destruction  in 
24 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

so  short  a  time.  When  the  police  arrived,  there  was 
nothing  to  do.  The  crowd  approved. 

As  we  walked  down  the  Boulevard  de  Strasbourg 
towards  the  grands  boulevards,  every  cafe  was  ablaze 
with  light,  and  tables  overflowed  into  the  street. 
The  orchestras  were  playing  the  Marseillaise,  the 
Eambre  et  Meuse  and  the  Russian  and  British  na- 
tional hymns.  Nothing  else  would  go.  The  same 
four  airs  were  demanded  over  and  over  again.  Those 
standing  in  the  street  joined  in  the  choruses  of 
the  songs  with  as  much  zest  as  if  they  also 
were  drinking  heavily.  The  evening  was  grow- 
ing older,  and  the  excitement  increasing  with  every 
hour. 

My  companion  and  I  managed  to  get  a  table, 
where  we  soon  found  ourselves  involuntary  recipients 
of  an  enthusiastic  ovation.  He,  a  Spanish  Jew  from 
Turkey,  and  I,  an  American  to  the  cut  of  my  trou- 
sers, were  somehow  taken  by  the  crowd  for  English- 
men. It  would  not  have  done  to  protest.  For  then 
we  should  have  been  German  spies !  We  had  to  see 
it  through  by  standing  on  our  chairs  and  leading  the 
mob  in  "God  save  the  King,"  of  which  we,  no  more 
than  they,  knew  the  words.  We  came  out  strong  on 
the  last  line  of  each  verse.  Up  to  the  last  line,  I 
sang  "My  country,  'tis  of  thee."  The  Constanti- 
nopolitan  just  kept  his  lips  moving.  We  were  com- 
pelled to  shake  hands  with  one  and  all  of  the  hun- 

25 


PARIS  REBORN 

dreds  who  passed  in  line  before  us,  and  to  promise 
that  the  British  would  not  fail  France.  When 
finally  we  managed  to  sit  down  again,  I  had  decided 
I  would  never  run  for  the  Presidency  of  the  United 
States.  My  arm  is  so  limp  that  I  can  hardly  write. 
My  mind  would  be  limp  also  if  I  had  consumed  the 
pledges  of  friendship  with  which  our  table  was  cov- 
ered. Many  of  our  numerous  friends  had  ordered 
up  drinks  for  us.  The  waiter  stopped  bringing  them 
only  when  he  had  no  place  to  put  them. 

What  has  happened  since  we  escaped  from  that 
cafe  is  a  dream.  Fourteen  years  ago  I  had  the  privi- 
lege of  living  through  Mafeking  night  in  London. 
It  was  a  night  that  brought  a  new  word  into  the  Eng- 
lish language.  This  evening  has  equaled  Mafeking 
night  in  enthusiasm — no,  that  is  not  the  word  I  want 
— in  delirium. 

From  the  Gare  de  1'Est  to  the  Madeleine,  proces- 
sion after  procession  passed  through  the  Boulevards, 
carrying  flags  and  banners.  As  most  of  the  young 
men  of  the  nation  are  leaving  to-day  or  to-morrow, 
the  French  manifestants  were  mostly  boys.  Among 
the  most  enthusiastic  that  I  saw  were  those  whose 
banner  declared  that  they  were  "The  Jews  of  France 
in  Arms  for  the  Motherland."  1  The  majority  of 

1 1  must  explain  my  translation  of  "Patrie."  I  had  it  correctly 
"Fatherland,"  in  the  MS.,  but  my  wife  crossed  it  out  and  sub- 
stituted "Motherland."  She  says  that  "Fatherland"  smacks  too 

26 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 


the  paraders  were  volunteers  of  various  nations,  who, 
according  to  their  banners  at  least,  were  offering  their 
services  to  France.  Among  the  groups  I  j  otted  down : 

"Rumania  rallies  to  the  Mother  of  the  Latin 
races" ; 

"Italy,  whose  freedom  was  purchased  by  French 
blood"; 

"Spain,  the  loving  sister  of  France" ; 

"British  volunteers  for  France" ; 

"The  Greeks  who  love  France" ; 

"Belgium  looks  to  France"; 

"Luxembourg  will  never  be  German" ; 

"The  Slavic  World  at  France's  side"; 

"Scandinavians  of  Paris"; 

"South  American  lives  for  the  Mother  of  South 
American  culture." 

The  greatest  cheers,  mixed  with  frenzied  sobs, 
greeted  the  long  line  of  those  who  claimed  to  be 
"Alsatians  bound  for  home."  _  How  one  gets  to  the 
very  depth  of  French  feeling  whenever  Alsace  and 
Lorraine  are  mentioned ! 

Mob  spirit,  of  which  we  had  seen  the  beginning 
at  the  Gare  de  1'Est,  soon  got  the  upper  hand.  Al- 
most next  door  to  the  cafe  where  we  had  our  ova- 
tion was  a  Paris  Pschorrbrauhaus.  It  was  rumored 
— falsely  perhaps — that  the  orchestra  had  got  tired  of 

much  of  beer  and  sausages,  and  spoils  the  sentiment  of  my  narra- 
tive! 

2? 


PARIS  REBORN 

playing  the  Marseillaise.  In  five  minutes  there  was 
nothing  left  of  the  cafe  but  splintered  glass  and  wood. 

A  merry  and  peaceable  crowd  was  changing  into 
a  mpb  bent  upon  destruction. 

A  few  roughnecks  began  the  sack  of  cafes  whose 
proprietors  had  German  names,  or  whose  signs  told 
that  they  sold  German  beer.  As  biere  de  Munich 
is  a  favorite  beverage  with  Parisians,  this  meant 
really  every  cafe.  Wise  men,  who  saw  the  storm 
coming,  closed  hastily. 

We  got  into  the  maelstrom  as  it  swept  down  the 
grands  boulevards  towards  the  Place  de  1'Opera. 
The  dives  of  Paris  had  poured  out  their  product — 
the  same  type  as  in  all  great  cities.  Patriotism  was 
seized  upon  as  the  excuse  for  loot  and  destruction. 
It  is  astonishing  how  contamination  spreads.  Re- 
spectable men  and  boys — even  respectable  women — 
caught  the  mob  spirit. 

Robbed  of  their  objective  by  the  closing  of  the 
cafes,  the  mob  began  to  break  into  shops  supposed 
to  be  German  or  Austrian.  It  needed  only  the  un- 
supported affirmation  of  some  irresponsible  person 
to  start  an  attack.  From  the  very  beginning,  the 
police  were  powerless  to  protect  Appenrodt's  and  the 
Cristallerie  de  Karlsbad  on  the  Boulevard  des  Ital- 
iens.  We  saw  one  stone  fired,  then  another,  and 
after  that  there  was  no  stopping  the  mob.  Mounted 
cavalry  appeared.  It  was  too  late.  They  were  un- 

28 


PARIS  ANSWERS  THE  CALL  TO  MOBILIZE 

willing  to  ride  down  the  crowd  or  fire  into  it.  No 
gentler  measure  would  have  sufficed.  The  city  of 
Paris  will  have  a  large  bill  of  damages  to  pay  when 
this  night's  accounts  are  settled. 

It  is  a  poor  way  for  Paris  to  enter  into  the  life- 
and-death  struggle.  I  should  be  anxious — and  dis- 
gusted— had  I  not  seen  mobs  before,  and  did  I  not 
know  that  the  grands  boulevards  could  no  more 
typify  the  real  Paris  in  war  than  in  peace.  A  few 
thousands,  drawn  into  a  demonstration  of  which  they 
will  be  heartily  ashamed  to-morrow,  are  looting  and 
destroying.  A  few  thousands  are  drinking  them- 
selves into  a  state  of  irresponsibility.  But  two  mil- 
lions in  this  city  to-night  are  soberly  resigning  them- 
selves to  the  sacrifice.  Those  who  are  called  are  pre- 
paring to  go  out  to  fight  and  die.  Those  who  are 
not  called  will  remain  to  work  and  keep  the  de- 
fenders in  the  field. 

The  real  Paris  is  not  the  mob  with  stones  and 
sticks,  but  the  woman  who  gave  me  my  morning  cof- 
fee, the  students  at  the  cafe  on  the  "Boul  Mich,"  the 
Lawyer  with  his  illumined  face,  the  women  clutch- 
ing the  arms  of  their  menfolk  in  the  Luxembourg. 
Because  I  see  the  power  of  victory  in  Paris  answering 
the  call  to  mobilize,  my  heart  thrills  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  realization  when  I  think  of  that  one  banner 
standing  out  among  those  of  the  volunteers, 

"Alsatians  bound  for  home"  ! 
29 


Ill 

THE    CONFLAGRATION    IS    INEVITABLE 

August  third. 

THIS  morning  I  left  my  hotel  with  two  "first 
things"  in  my  head :  money  and  a  typewriter. 
Both  were  intimately  connected  with  the  war,  how- 
ever, and  with  each  other.  It  was  not  that  I  antici- 
pated much  difficulty  in  getting  either,  but  that  I 
needed  both  badly.  When  I  got  over  to  the  region 
of  the  Opera,  I  found  that  I  had  been  taking  too 
much  for  granted. 

I  tried  first  for  money.  At  the  Credit  Lyonnais 
there  was  a  line  greater  than  one  would  find  in  New 
York  for  the  dollar  seats  on  a  Caruso  night.  I  felt 
pleased  with  myself  that  my  eggs  were  not  all  in  one 
basket.  I  had  an  account  in  an  American  bank.  I 
turned  my  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann,  quickly  mapping  out  my  time.  Half 
an  hour  for  the  bank,  half  an  hour  for  renting  a  type- 
writer, half  an  hour  to  get  back  to  my  hotel  in  a 
cab  with  the  machine,  and  by  one  o'clock  I  would 
have  my  letter  ready  to  mail.  Then  after  lunch  I 
could  cast  around  and  see  who  was  in  town. 

30 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  IS  INEVITABLE 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Frangois,  the  most 
urbane  elevator  man  in  the  world,  was  not  smiling. 
I  could  hardly  believe  eyes  and  ears  when  he  an- 
swered my  usual  salutation  with  a  grunt,  and  shoved 
me  into  the  lift  with  half  a  dozen  others.  But  when 
I  stepped  out  into  the  corridor  between  the  American 
clients'  guichets  and  the  post-office  desk  where  you 
get  your  mail,  I  forgave  Francois.  No,  more  than 
that.  I  wondered  that  he  had  the  will  left  to  so 
much  as  grunt,  after  having  carried  that  unman- 
nerly mob  upstairs. 

I  made  my  way  through  the  reading-room,  sized 
up  the  situation,  decided  that  the  typewriter  was 
more  pressing  than  money,  and  made  a  dive  back  for 
the  elevator.  In  the  course  of  my  dive  I  met  a  per- 
sistent obstacle,  which  refused  to  yield  to  silent  per- 
suasion or  to  be  moved  by  a  gentle  "I  beg  your  par- 
don." 

"Say,"  remonstrated  the  obstacle.  "This  is  Nine- 
teen-Fourteen  and  not  Noughty-One.  What  mental 
aberration  has  led  you  to  think  you  have  turned  the 
hands  of  the  clock  back  fifteen  years,  that  my  direc- 
tion is  the  goal  towards  which  you  are  trying  to  push 
the  pigskin,  and  that  your  fifteen-stone  of  fat  is 
worth  the  ten-stone  of  muscle  you  wielded  in  the 
good  old  days'?" 

I  looked  up  with  joy.  The  hands-across-the-sea 
mixture  of  his  metaphor  was  as  sure  an  indication  to 

31 


PARIS  REBORN 

me  as  his  drawl.    "Why,  it  is  the  Sculptor!"  I  cried 
joyously. 

"No  other  person,"  he  answered.  "Where  is  the 
Artist*?  Seeing  one  bad  egg,  you  understand,  makes 
me  think  of — " 

"The  good  one1?"  I  interrupted. 

It  was  impossible  to  talk  in  that  hubbub  of : 

PLAINTIVE  QUERY:  "Why  can  I  have  only  five 
hundred  francs'?  I  carry  a  large  balance  with  you." 

PLEASANT  ANSWER:  "It  is  the  new  law  passed 
to-day,  Madame,  the  moratorium.  You  can  draw 
two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  and  five  per  cent,  of 
your  balance." 

GRUFF  DEMAND  (masculine  "self-made"  voice, 
of  course)  :  "Gi'  me  these  in  gold." 

PLEASANT  ANSWER:  "I  am  sorry,  sir,  but  these 
are  not  our  travelers'  checks,  nor  are  they  of  our  cor- 
respondents. Anyway,  we  would  have  no  gold  to 
give  for  our  own  checks  to-day." 

SHRILL,  HYSTERICAL  CRY:  "And  is  my  letter  of 
credit  any  good  now*?" 

PLEASANT  ANSWER:  "Yes,  Madame,  we  can  give 
you  the  equivalent  of  twenty-five  pounds  sterling." 

CONTINUANCE  OF  SAME  CRY  :  "But  I  have  to  buy 
some  gowns." 

CONTINUANCE  OF  SAME  PLEASANT  ANSWER:  "I 
am  sorry,  Madame,  but  we  can  give  no  more  than  the 
equivalent  of  twenty-five  pounds  to-day." 

32 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  IS  INEVITABLE 

And  so  forth;  and  so  forth;  AND  so  FORTH  ! 

Frangois  took  us  downstairs.  When  we  got  out 
into  the  open  air,  the  Sculptor  said : 

"Think  I  '11  do  a  golden  calf  for  the  Pan-Ameri- 
can, and  call  it:  Paris,  August  third,  1914.  No 
use  bothering  my  brain  to  hunt  subjects;  they  always 
come  to  you — thrust  upon  you." 

The  Sculptor  was  not  interested  in  my  quest  for  a 
typewriter.  We  parted  with  the  understanding  that 
each  would  keep  an  eye  open  for  the  Artist  and  that 
we  should  meet  in  the  evening  to  dine  at  Marie's. 

On  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  I  found  all  the  evi- 
dences of  "the  morning  after."  The  places  that  had 
been  wrecked  were  boarded  up.  Policemen  in  double 
rows  mounted  guard  at  the  Cafe  Viennois  and  other 
suspected  places.  Most  of  the  shops  had  closed, 
and  bore  the  sign  Mai  son  Franfaise:  fermee  pour 
cause  de  mobilization  (French  establishment:  closed 
for  the  mobilization).  As  a  great  many  of  the 
boulevard  shopkeepers  have  names  which  are  not  typ- 
ically French,  the  assertion  Mais  on  Frangaise  and  the 
ostentatious  display  of  the  French  flag  was  as  ludi- 
crous as  if  Lower  Broadway  were  decked  in  green  for 
St.  Patrick's  Day.  Mr.  Rosenbaum  or  Mr.  Bern- 
stein may  be  French  or  Irish,  but  there  is  at  least  a 
reasonable  doubt!  In  many  windows,  certificates 
of  French  origin,  stamped  by  the  Prefecture  of  Po- 
lice, were  displayed,  or,  in  default  of  these,  Russian, 

33 


PARIS  REBORN 

British,  Italian  and  Belgian  passports.  For  more 
than  one  fair  dame,  accustomed  to  dress  as  jeune  fille 
and  hide  the  gray  by  henna,  this  was  a  public  con- 
fession of  age.  But  was  not  that  better  than  the  risk 
of  having  plate  glass  broken  and  shop  looted*? 

Hunting  for  a  typewriter  on  the  Boulevards,  in 
the  Rue  le  Peletier  and  the  Rue  Richelieu,  afforded 
curious  revelations  concerning  the  origin  of  shop- 
keepers and  their  goods.  I  remember  as  a  boy  won- 
dering why  in  the  New  York  markets  choice  fowls 
were  always  labeled  "Philadelphia  poultry,"  and 
in  the  Philadelphia  markets  "New  York  poultry." 
Is  it  true  even  of  the  denizens  of  the  barnyard  that 
they  are  without  honor  in  their  own  country"?  Why 
do  we  always  attach  a  greater  value  to  the  thing  that 
comes  from  some  other  place  than  that  in  which  we 
live*?  Why  is  "imported"  the  magic  word  that 
sells'?  To-day  in  Paris  Vienna  bakers,  British  and 
American  tailors,  Italian  restaurant  keepers  are  all 
loyal  Frenchmen  leaving  for  the  battle  line.  Eng- 
lish home-spun  comes  from  Lille,  Austrian  pottery 
from  Limoges,  eau-de-Cologne  from  Soissons,  Frank- 
furter sausages  from  Tours,  sauerkraut  from  Nancy 
and  biere  de  Munich  from  the  suburbs  of  Paris. 
Only  sewing  machines  and  typewriters  are  not  home 
made.  But  this  brings  me  back  to  my  quest. 

That  there  should  have  been  a  paralysis  in  the 
business  life  of  French  firms  through  the  crisis  in  the 

34 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  IS  INEVITABLE 

money  market  and  through  the  calling  out  of  their 
managers  for  an  indefinite  period  of  war  service  is 
wholly  understandable.  But  I  do  not  know  why  a 
number  of  American  typewriter  firms  had  closed 
shop,  and  why  in  the  one  great  concern  which  I  found 
open  the  American  manager,  a  true  New  Yorker,  was 
wholly  "up  in  the  air."  To  hear  him  talk,  one 
would  believe  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come 
and  that  what  the  morrow  would  bring  forth  no  man 
knew.  I  tried  to  reason  with  him,  for  I  wanted  a 
typewriter  badly.  He  would  not  rent  one.  He 
would  not  accept  a  deposit,  as  a  guarantee  of  my 
good  faith.  Typewriters  there  were  galore  around 
him,  but  not  one  would  be  allowed  to  leave  the  prem- 
ises unless  I  paid  him  seven  hundred  francs  in  cash. 
When  I  told  him  that  I  already  had  one  of  his  type- 
writers, bought  only  a  few  months  before,  at  my 
country  home  and  another  machine  at  Havre  and 
that  I  did  not  care  to  purchase  a  third,  the  interview 
for  him  was  at  an  end.  In  desperation,  for  I  knew 
the  other  places  were  closed,  I  offered  to  pay  the  man 
the  seven  hundred  francs  if  he  would  take  the  ma- 
chine back  the  next  day,  and  give  me  my  money  back. 
No,  he  would  not  do  that.  I  suggested  that  I  take 
one  of  his  old  machines  and  deposit  the  seven  hun- 
dred francs.  "If  I  do  not  bring  the  machine  back," 
I  said,  "you  will  have  sold  a  second-hand  machine 
for  seven  hundred  francs."  That  would  not  do. 

35 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  only  other  thing  I  could  think  of  was  that  he 
deliver  me  a  machine  on  rental  in  care  of  a  hundred 
million  dollar  American  corporation,  whose  large  of- 
fice-building was  near  his  establishment,  and  who 
would  be  a  guarantee  of  my  good  faith.  No,  he 
would  not  do  that  either.  So  I  left  the  imbecile 
running  his  hands  through  his  hair,  and  waiting  for 
the  deluge  to  come.  I  cite  this  story  in  extenso,  be- 
cause it  illustrates  how  the  panic  in  business  was  af- 
fecting even  Americans  in  responsible  positions. 

It  was  now  three  o'clock,  and  I  did  not  have  my 
typewriter.  Suddenly,  I  thought  of  a  large  Amer- 
ican firm  who  had  a  buying  office  in  the  wholesale 
quarter.  I  did  not  know  the  French  manager,  but 
had  credentials  which  made  me  feel  that  he  might 
be  induced  to  lend  me  one  of  his  office  machines. 

I  met  him  in  the  hallway,  and  started  to  explain 
what  I  wanted.  He  cut  me  short. 

"I  am  leaving  for  the  front  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"and  my  English  stenographer  cleared  out  this  morn- 
ing. In  my  office,  you  can  have  the  machine." 

"Good,"  I  answered.  "Here  is  my  address. 
Please  send  a  boy  over  with  it  to  my  hotel." 

He  fingered  my  card,  and  looked  at  me  with  as- 
tonishment. "Young  man,"  he  said,  "if  you  really 
want  that  typewriter,  you  just  take  it  off  the  table 
and  carry  it  out  of  here  yourself  right  away." 

I  took  it. 

36 


I  shall  never  forget  walking  down  the  Boulevards 
all  the  way  from  Marguery's  to  the  Opera  Comique 
without  seeing  a  single  free  taxi.  On  the  afternoon 
of  a  summer  day  such  an  experience  in  Paris  seemed 
unbelievable.  But  it  was  very  real  to  me  with 
that  typewriter  banging  against  my  leg  at  every 
step.  Before  I  got  back  to  my  hotel  it  was  five 
o'clock. 

Now  I  am  at  my  hard-earned  machine.  One  only 
knows  what  a  typewriter  means  when  he  wants  it 
badly  and  has  n't  got  it. 

Ten  p.  m. 

The  typewriter  occupied  my  thoughts  so  fully  this 
afternoon  that  I  did  not  think  of  money  until  after 
I  had  posted  my  letter.  It  was  then  half  past  six. 
I  still  had  my  hundred-franc  note  unbroken — and 
unbreakable.  The  five-franc  pieces  the  Lawyer  had 
given  me  on  Sunday  afternoon  were  gone. 

Luckily,  there  was  the  rendezvous  with  the  Sculp- 
tor for  dinner  at  Marie's.  As  I  turned  away  from 
the  post-office  and  crossed  the  Place  de  Rennes  in 
front  of  the  Gare  du  Montparnasse,  I  found  my- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  man  hunt.  Some  one  had  said 
that  a  man  making  for  the  station  was  a  German, 
and  that  he  had  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "Vive  VAlle- 
magne"  No  one  stopped  to  ascertain  if  the  charge 
were  true  or  not.  The  victim  was  hit  several  times 

37 


PARIS  REBORN 

over  the  head  by  the  inner  ring  of  the  crowd  that 
gathered.  He  evidently  had  some  friend,  though. 
For,  as  I  worked  my  way  in  to  see  what  the  matter 
was,  he  had  succeeded  in  getting  clear,  and  ran  into 
the  Cafe  La  venue.  The  crowd  started  after  him. 
Quick  as  a  flash,  the  cafe  doors  were  closed.  I  man- 
aged to  get  in  by  another  door. 

Some  fifty  men  were  inside  the  cafe.  It  was  a 
strange  sight  to  see  the  "spy"  jammed  against  the 
wall  on  the  high  box  where  Paris  had  so  long  been 
accustomed  to  watch  Schumaker  bring  forth  delight- 
ful melodies  from  his  violin.  The  man  was  trying 
to  talk.  His  words  were  drowned  in  the  angry 
roar.  The  police  came  just  in  time.  First  they 
cleared  us  out  of  the  cafe,  and  then  formed  a  cordon 
around  the  supposed  German,  and  got  him  across  the 
street  into  the  railway  station. 

"Is  he  really  a  German  spy1?"  I  asked  the  waiter 
on  the  terrace  of  Lavenue. 

"Why,  no.  I  'm  sure  he  is  not.  He  is  a  whole- 
sale wine  merchant  who  lives  at  Meudon,  and  from 
whom  all  the  cafes  around  here  buy.  He  is  just  as 
French  as  I  am." 

"But  if  you  know  him,  why  did  n't  you  vouch  for 
him — the  proprietor  and,  you  other  men  of  the 
cafe1?" 

The  waiter  shook  his  head.  "That  would  have 
been  a  dangerous  game,"  he  said.  "Who  can  reason 

38 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  IS  INEVITABLE 

with  a  crowd?  Our  whole  place  would  have  been 
wrecked." 

I  looked  at  him  in  admiration.  If  you  want  a 
keen  judge  of  human  nature,  get  a  waiter. 

As  I  walked  down  the  Boulevard  du  Montpar- 
nasse,  I  ran  into  my  old  concierge.  "Teens!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Where  did  you  come  from1?  Are 
Madame  and  the  children  with  you*?" 

I  told  him  how  I  had  come  to  town  to  see  the 
mobilization.  He  shook  his  head  in  wonder  at  the 
things  Americans  would  do.  Some  were  crazy  to 
get  out.  Others  were  flying  straight  to  Paris  at  a 
time  like  this! 

"But  the  Germans  are  not  here,  and  I  think  they 
will  not  get  here  very  soon — if  ever.  I  am  more 
interested  in  the  prospects  of  changing  a  hundred- 
franc  note  than  in  the  Germans." 

"A  hundred-franc  note  is  not  money  now,"  he 
commented.  Just  as  we  were  parting,  he  grabbed 
my  sleeve  impulsively.  "But  does  Monsieur  need 
money?"  he  asked.  "I  can  give  you  some  silver." 

"Rene,"  I  said,  "how  much  real  money,  as  you 
call  it,  have  you  got1?" 

"Forty  francs,"  he  replied,  and  took  out  his  purse. 
"But  half  of  it  is  yours." 

I  did  not  need  the  money,  for  I  was  going  to  meet 
the  Sculptor.  But  I  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
borrow  from  Rene.  The  gruff  exterior  of  a  Paris 

39 


PARIS  REBORN 

concierge  covers  the  warmest  heart  that  beats.  Men 
or  women,  they  are  the  same.  They  scold  and  they 
growl,  but  they  will  share  their  last  crust  with  you. 
One  who  has  had  an  apartment  in  Paris  need  never 
feel  that  he  lacks  a  friend. 

The  Sculptor  had  been  to  the  Rue  Descartes. 
No  Artist  yet !  Marie's  was  full  of  parting  reserv- 
ists. The  whole  large  family,  connected  mysteri- 
ously with  the  restaurant  which  would  hardly  seem 
large  enough  for  themselves  to  eat  in,  was  gathered 
around  one  table  in  the  corner.  We  had  to  wait 
a  bit  for  our  meal.  They  were  leaving,  sons  and 
sons-in-law,  brothers  and  brothers-in-law,  at  seven 
o'clock.  If  there  were  tears,  aprons  were  used 
adroitly ;  for  we  did  not  see  them.  It  was  a  boister- 
ous send-off,  to  which  we  contributed  the  price  of 
three  bottles  of  Beaujolais. 

After  they  were  gone,  we  ate  our  meal  in  haste 
at  a  little  table  on  the  sidewalk.  Marie  said  the 
order  had  come  to  close  at  eight  o'clock.  No  lei- 
surely glass  of  coffee  after  the  meal.  We  could  not 
understand  this  sudden  cutting  off  of  what  seemed 
to  be  as  essential  to  one's  every-day  life  as  the  air 
one  breathed.  After  the  Sculptor  had  paid,  we 
walked  down  to  the  Closerie  des  Lilas.  Shut  up 
tight.  It  was  the  same  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel. 
This  was  the  consequence — no,  more  than  that,  the 
solution — of  the  events  of  last  night.  On  a  wall  we 

40 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  IS  INEVITABLE 

read  the  proclamation  of  General  Michel,  the  mili- 
tary governor.  Cafes  are  to  close  in  Paris  at  eight 
o'clock.  The  sale  of  absinthe  is  prohibited  at  all 
hours  of  the  day. 

The  Sculptor  said  he  would  go  to  bed.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  I  made  the  same  decision. 
I  walked  back  to  my  hotel  along  a  silent  boulevard. 
No  lights  except  an  occasional  gas  lamp  of  the  last 
decade;  no  tramways,  no  motor  busses.  The  only 
noise  was  the  steady  tramp  of  regiments  passing  si- 
lently toward  the  Gare. 

The  war  is  on !     Paris  is  taking  it  in  earnest. 


IV 

THE    DAY    OF    THE    BELGIAN    ULTIMATUM 

August  fourth. 

THIS  morning  the  newspapers  stated  that  Ger- 
many had  addressed  an  ultimatum  to  Belgium, 
demanding  free  passage  for  her  army  to  the  French 
frontier,  and  that  sixty  thousand  Germans  have  oc- 
cupied the  Grand  Duchy  of  Luxembourg.  I  did 
not  have  to  leave  my  room  to  see  the  effect  of  this 
news  upon  the  people  of  Paris.  My  balcony  looked 
out  on  the  side-street  of  the  Felix  Potin  -branch  of 
the  Rue  de  Rennes.  Felix  Potin  is  the  largest 
grocery  establishment  in  Paris.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing, before  the  hour  of  opening,  several  thousand 
purchasers,  holding  big  baskets  and  potato-sacks, 
were  waiting  like  depositors  making  a  run  on  a  bank. 
When  I  tried,  half  an  hour  later,  to  force  my  way 
through  the  crowd  towards  breakfast,  it  was  a  solid 
— but  by  no  means  passive — mass.  A  hurry-up  call 
had  been  sent  in  for  the  police,  who  were  having 
difficulty  in  getting  through  the  crowd  themselves 
to  protect  the  doors  of  the  grocery.  Generally, 
Felix  Potin  puts  out  on  the  sidewalk  a  most  delight- 

42 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

ful  variety  of  fruits,  vegetables  and  meats  to  tempt 
the  housewives.  But  not  this  morning !  The  estab- 
lishment was  tightly  shut,  and  customers  were  being 
admitted  in  Noah  fashion  at  one  side-door. 

From  the  conversation,  I  gathered  that  the  Ger- 
mans were  on  the  way  to  Paris,  that  the  railways 
would  soon  be  cut  off,  and  that  it  was  now  or  never 
to  get  some  food  in.  Every  one  had  come  prepared 
to  carry  off  as  much  as  possible  of  sugar,  tea,  coffee, 
and  dried  and  canned  vegetables.  When  I  reached 
the  corner  there  was  a  big  sign,  stating  that  Mr. 
Felix  Potin  desired  to  inform  his  honorable  cus- 
tomers that  he  had  in  his  storehouses  enough  food  to 
feed  Paris  for  six  months,  but  that  horses  and  truck- 
men were  lacking  for  providing  immediately  in  his 
retail  shops  all  that  customers  might  desire  to  buy 
and  for  delivering  purchases.  So,  to  Mr.  Potin's 
infinite  regret,  he  was  compelled  to  limit  the  amount 
of  purchase  to  what  one  could  carry  out  of  the  shop. 

This  statement,  instead  of  reassuring  "the  honor- 
able customers,"  made  them  feel  more  strongly  that 
they  had  been  justified  in  rising  and  girding  up  their 
loins  early  that  morning  to  fight  for  a  few  weeks' 
food  supply.  Many  believed  that  they  could  get 
ahead  of  Potin  by  retaining  an  auto-taxi  or  cab,  to 
which  they  could  stagger  with  a  heavy  load  when 
they  left  the  shop.  It  was  a  long  line  of  cabs  and 
autos,  such  as  one  sees  at  a  vernissage  of  the  Salon 

43 


PARIS  REBORN 

or  a  first  night  of  a  Rostand  play,  and  the  merry 
ticking  of  their  taximeters,  two  sous  for  every  three 
minutes,  that  made  me  pause  and  get  an  idea  into 
my  thick  head. 

I  turned  back  to  look  more  carefully  at  the  crowd 
which  had  discovered  at  seven  A.  M.  that  it  wanted 
dried  lentils  and  peas  badly  enough  for  this.  Yes, 
my  idea  was  good.  These  were  not  the  ordinary 
Potin  early  morning  buyers,  nor  the  ordinary  con- 
sumers of  dried  lentils  and  peas.  These  were  not 
the  workers  of  Paris — the  representative  Parisians. 
No,  this  scared  crowd  were  all  of  the  class  that  cuts 
coupons  for  a  living,  or  of  those  who  are  accustomed 
to  cry  amen  to  the  editorials  of  the  Temps  against 
a  graduated  income  tax  with  an  exemption  for  mod- 
est incomes. 

I  was  amused  and  relieved.  I  thought  to  myself 
that  here  were  the  Parisian  counterparts  of  some 
Americans  I  had  seen  yesterday  at  the  bank.  The 
bank!  I  had  not  yet  changed  my  hundred-franc 
note  nor  secured  any  money.  So  I  turned  my  steps 
across  the  river. 

I  could  see  one  change  from  yesterday.  Wherever 
there  were  French  and  Russian  flags,  a  British  flag 
had  been  added.  The  ultimatum  to  Belgium  is 
panicky  in  that  it  bids  fair  to  cause  France  to  be 
caught,  before  her  mobilization  is  completed,  by  an 
overwhelming  invasion  of  the  northern  frontier. 

44 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

But  there  is  comfort  in  the  thought  that  now  Great 
Britain  has  one  more  strong  and  compelling  reason 
to  enter  on  the  side  of  France,  and  to  enter  immedi- 
ately. The  speeches  reported  from  the  House  of 
Commons  last  night  can  have  no  other  meaning  than 
that  this  is  the  intention  of  the  British  Cabinet. 

The  bank  was  bad  enough,  but  not  so  bad  as  yester- 
day. They  actually  let  me  have  five  hundred 
francs !  I  have  never  felt  so  rich  in  my  life.  Now 
for  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix ! 

As  I  swung  around  the  corner  of  the  Opera,  al- 
most opposite  the  office  of  the  American  Express 
Company,  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the 
Teacher.  I  call  him  that,  although  he  is  now  the 
head  of  one  of  our  very  greatest  American  universi- 
ties. I  call  him  that  because  I  think  of  him  as  that, 
just  as  many  thousands  of  his  old  boys,  scattered  all 
over  the  world,  are  thinking  of  him  as  he  used  to 
stand  before  our  eyes  in  the  weekly  chemistry  lec- 
ture, with  the  test  tube  in  his  hand,  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  subject  lighting  up  his  face  and  the  love  of 
his  boys  lighting  up  his  eyes.  And  they  are  think- 
ing of  him,  because  his  is  a  personality,  which,  once 
having  touched  the  life  of  youth,  has  never  left  the 
object  of  contact.  Is  there  any  other  man  in  Amer- 
ica who  actually  knows  by  their  first  names  thou- 
sands of  the  best-equipped  men  of  the  nation,  and 
who  has  followed  their  careers,  although  one  decade 

45 


PARIS  REBORN 

or  two  decades,  or  more  than  that,  have  passed  since 
they  sat  under  him  in  the  classroom*?  There  is  no 
nobler  title  a  man  can  have  than  that  of  Teacher, 
and  when  I  say  that  this  professor  of  chemistry 
glorifies  the  title,  one  can  realize  how  glad  I  was  to 
see  him. 

"What  a  joy  to  meet  you  here !"  I  cried.  And, 
when  he  told  me  that  his  wife  was  with  him,  my  joy 
was  greater  still,  for  there  are  some  teachers  who 
have  taken  unto  themselves  partners  that  share  the 
affection  they  receive  from  their  students. 

"I  am  just  going  over  there,  Herbert,"  said  the 
Teacher.  "And  after  I  have  gotten  some  money 
and  my  mail,  I  am  going  to  see  about  my  steamship 
passage  for  next  Saturday  on  the  French  line." 

I  looked  "over  there,"  and  saw  the  mad  strug- 
gling mass  before  the  doors  of  the  Express  Company, 
stretching  around  into  the  Rue  Auber  up  to  the  point 
where  it  mingled  with  the  equally  mad,  struggling 
mass,  turned  in  the  other  direction,  which  was  be- 
sieging the  office  of  the  Compagnie  Generale  Trans- 
atlantique. 

"But,  Doctor,"  I  expostulated,  "you  are  really  not 
going  to  try  to  get  into  either  of  those  places,  are 
you*?  Can  I  not  stand  for  you"?  It  is  incredible 
for  me  to  think  of  you  having  to  do  such  a  thing." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "Herbert,"  he  said,  "I 
have  done  lots  of  things  these  last  few  days  that  I 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

had  never  dreamed  of  doing.  Yesterday  Mrs. 

and  I  stood  in  line  from  morning  to  night  at  the  Em- 
bassy to  get  a  certificate  of  nationality,  and  after  I 
get  through  with  the  bank  and  steamship  office,  I 
have  to  go  and  stand  in  line  at  the  police  station  for 
our  permis  de  sejour.  These  are  things  that  must 
be  attended  to  personally,  and  at  a  time  like  this  I 
have  no  right  to  ask  for  special  favors.  The  sister 
of  the  President  of  the  United  States  was  among 
those  in  line  at  the  Embassy  yesterday.  We  all 
waited  our  turn." 

I  could  say  nothing.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 
The  Teacher  was  right.  After  having  made  an  en- 
gagement with  him  for  dinner  that  evening,  I 
watched  him  cross  the  street  and  enter  the  line. 
There  was  a  man,  honored  in  the  great  university 
city  above  all  men.  At  home,  for  the  privilege  of 
talking  a  few  minutes  with  him,  who  would  not  have 
waited  hours'? 

As  the  Teacher  crossed  to  take  his  place  at  the  end 
of  the  mob  on  the  Rue  Scribe,  I  saw  an  auto-taxi 
draw  up  in  front  of  the  door  at  the  corner.  Mr. 
Got-Rocks-and-Lets-You-Know-It  stepped  out  ma- 
jestically, and  started  to  wave  his  way  through  the 
line.  A  policeman  shook  his  head,  and  pointed  to 
the  end  of  the  line.  There  was  a  bellow  of  rage,  a 
nervous  hand  thrust  into  a  breast-pocket,  a  wallet 
produced,  and  the  fumbling  for  a  card.  I  did  not 

47 


PARIS  REBORN 

stay  to  watch  the  comedy.  The  bellow  of  rage  was 
undoubtedly  an  indignant  "DO  YOU  KNOW 
WHO  I  AM*?"  and  it  was  undoubtedly  answered 
as  often  as  reiterated  by  a  despairing  and  fatalistic 
shrug  of  blue-coated  shoulders.  It  is  a  great  thing 
for  the  frog  called  Pompous  Picayuninity  to  get  out 
of  its  little  pond  occasionally ! 

I  went  back  to  my  hotel,  hoping  for  some  word 
from  the  Artist.  More  joy!  There  he  was,  sitting 
in  the  corridor,  waving  a  bamboo  cane,  twirling  the 
scarcely  perceptible  upward  curve  of  a  scarcely 
perceptible  mustache,  and  looking  as  if  he  had 
stepped  out  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailoring  establish- 
ment. There  is  no  greater  illusion  than  to  think 
that  in  art  and  in  music  the  spotted  shirt,  the  shape- 
less coat,  and  the  creaseless  trousers  are  the  inevitable 
accompaniment  of  the  man  who  has  the  "vital 
spark."  Poor  grooming  betokens  the  one  on  whom 
the  muses  have  turned  their  back  almost  as  con- 
clusively as  it  betokens  the  failure  in  any  other  line. 
While  shining  shoes  are  by  no  means  the  sign  of  a 
shining  intellect,  dull  shoes  pretty  generally  accom- 
pany a  dull  intellect. 

Is  n't  it  curious  how  often  deep  satisfaction  is  ex- 
pressed by  the  milder  forms  of  profanity*? 

"Where  in ?"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  re- 
membered in  time  that  I  was  a  parson  or  that  the 
Artist  broke  in  to  save  me. 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

"Well,"  he  began  with  that  dear  drawl  of  his,  by 
which  the  insulation  of  nonchalance  covered  the  real 
live  wire  only  to  the  superficial  observer,  "I  have  had 
the  deuce  of  a  time  since  you  left  me  at  Pont-Croix 
two  weeks  ago.  No,  I  didn't  make  love  to  that 
pretty  girl  at  the  station,  because,  you  remember,  she 
had  a  baby  in  her  arms  as  she  punched  your  ticket." 

I  started  to  laugh. 

"That 's  not  the  reason — " 

I  laughed  still  harder. 

"Sounds  worse,  does  n't  it*?  But  I  did  n't  start  to 
talk  romances.  I  see  in  your  eye  that  you  want  to 

know  how  in  the ,  that  is,  how  I  got  here.  Came 

in  this  morning,  old  buck;  free  ride  all  that  way  up. 
Free,  mind  you.  This  is  how  it  happened.  When 
I  saw  that  mobilization  poster  up  on  the  wall  of  the 
Maine,  thought  I  had  better  get  down  to  Douar- 
nenez.  Could  n't  afford  to  be  caught  in  a  hole  like 
Pont-Croix,  where  my  face  would  not  pass  me  free 
into  the  dining-room  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time. 
You  know  I  calculated  on  just  enough  money  until 
the  thirteenth,  and  had  paid  my  passage  back  to 
New  York  on  that  date  as  a  precaution.  So  I  went 
into  the  Maine  and  asked  for  a  laissez-passer  to 
Paris.  Monsieur  le  Maire  gave  it  to  me  all  right, 
and  I  made  him  put  all  the  rubber  stamps  he  had  in 
the  office  on  it,  got  into  a  train  loaded  with  reservists, 
and  waved  the  laissez-passer  at  the  conductor,  who 

49 


PARIS  REBORN 

was  hurrying  through  as  if  he  did  not  expect  to  find 
any  ordinary  travelers  on  the  train.  At  Douarnenez 
and  Nantes,  I  did  n't  leave  the  station,  just  kept  well 
inside;  so  I  came  moseying  on  to  Paris  with  the  re- 
servists. A  number  of  them  asked  me  what  day  I  was 
called  out  for,  and  I  just  grinned,  and  they  thought 
I  was  an  Englishman,  and  kept  explaining  to  each 
other  that  Englishmen  could  go  out  any  time  they 
wanted  to,  or  not  at  all  if  they  did  n't  want  to.  They 
were  just  as  I  find  them  here — all  the  French  seem 
fearfully  nervous  about  whether  the  English  are  com- 
ing into  this  game.  What  do  you  think  about  that?" 

"Not  so  fast!"  I  remonstrated.  "We'll  leave 
Asquith  and  Sir  Edward  Grey  and  Lloyd-George  out 
of  the  conversation  until  you  tell  me  what  you  did 
when  you  got  on  the  station  platform  at  Paris.  Did 
your  laissez-passer  stand  good  for  a  ticket  to  the  col- 
lectors at  the  exit,  and  what  did  they  think  of  your 
label-bespattered  suitcase  and  your  painting  kit? 
Did  you  pass  for  a  war  artist,  the  successor  of  Vere- 
schagin*?" 

"I  did  think  that  was  going  to  be  a  rub,  but 
the  Gare  d' Orleans  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  this 
morning  that  you  can't  describe  by  any  other  word 
than — just  French.  No  travelers  around,  although 
you  had  to  scramble  over  their  trunks  to  get  off  the 
platform.  Just  bunches  of  men  coming  and  going, 
and  not  knowing  which  they  were  doing.  No  por- 

50 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

ters  either,  so  I  just  made  a  camel  of  myself,  and 
marched  slowly  but  boldly  up  the  stairs  and  through 
the  crowd.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to  me.  Say, 
I  did  have  a  time  getting  a  cab.  Had  to  walk  all 
the  way  up  the  Quai  to  the  Rue  Bonaparte  before  I 
saw  anything,  and  then  I  landed  a  one-eyed  driver 
with  a  lame  horse  only  because  I  saw  him  first.  I 
put  everything  in  the  cab,  jumped  in  myself,  and 
poked  him  in  the  backbone  to  give  him  my  address 
before  he  knew  he  had  me.  He  protested  that  he 
was  just  about  to  go  back  to  the  stables  to  give  his 
horse  something  to  eat,  but  I  answered  that  from  the 
looks  of  the  horse  he  would  n't  mind  missing  just  one 
more  meal.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  lost  the  habit 
so  long  ago  that  he  had  forgotten  how.  So  we 
crawled  up  behind  the  Pantheon  to  the  studio. 
There  I  found  your  card,  and,  as  soon  as  I  had  per- 
formed three  days'  ablutions,  I  came  over  to  hear 
the  good  word.  Now  tell  us  how  you  got  on  from 
Morlaix." 

At  this  point  the  Man  from  Texas  and  two  Scotch 
doctors  broke  in  upon  us. 

There  is  an  American  cinematograph  actor,  well 
known  to  Parisians — and  certainly  one  of  their  fa- 
vorites— who  is,  I  believe,  called  Bunny.  If  that 
is  n't  the  name,  you  will  know  whom  I  mean  when  I 
say  that  a  fatter  actor  with  a  larger,  rounder  face 
never  trod  the  boards  in  our  generation.  The  Man 

51 


PARIS  REBORN 

from  Texas  is  Bunny's  twin  brother.  He  was  an 
Alsatian  half  a  century  ago.  His  family  got  out  of 
Colmar  at  the  time  of  the  annexation.  In  Texas  he 
had  evidently  gained  more  than  his  three  hundred 
pounds,  for  "money  was  no  object."  Many  Ameri- 
cans have  met  him,  as  have  I,  on  transatlantic  steam- 
ers, and  have  smoked  his  Havanas. 

His  face  was  beaming,  as  only  a  face  like  his 
could  beam,  as  he  stretched  out  his  broad  paw  to 
greet  us.  He  introduced  the  Scotch  doctors  in  such 
high-flowing  terms  that  I  did  not  realize  that  he  was 
describing  me.  So  I  promptly  passed  the  imputa- 
tion of  celebrity  on  to  the  Artist.  The  Man  from 
Texas  wanted  us,  as  neutrals,  to  assure  his  Scotch 
friends  that  the  British  Bulldog  was  honor  bound  to 
fasten  his  teeth  in  the  Kaiser's  trousers,  and,  as  mili- 
tary experts,  to  maintain  that  General  Joffre  should 
promptly  throw  the  bulk  of  the  French  army  into 
Alsace,  leaving  the  defense  of  Belgium  to  the  British. 

"This  must  be  for  us  an  offensive  war !"  he  cried. 
"The  first  thought  of  every  Frenchman  called  to 
arms  is  to  rescue  the  enslaved  of  the  Lost  Provinces. 
That  I  should  have  lived  to  be  in  Paris  on  this 
day!" 

When  lunch  time  came,  after  we  had  listened  for 
half  an  hour  to  a  continuous  chorus  of  "Aye,  aye," 
from  the  Scotchmen,  and  had  warded  off,  as  best  we 
could,  the  successive  suggestions  of  aperitifs  (our 

52 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BELGIAN  ULTIMATUM 

best  was  n't  very  good)  on  the  part  of  the  Man  from 
Texas,  we  escaped  to  hunt  up  the  Sculptor. 

Until  the  news  arrived  of  King  Albert's  splendid 
answer  to  the  Kaiser  and  of  his  appeal  to  France  and 
to  Great  Britain,  there  was  the  lull  of  terrible  uncer- 
tainty in  Paris  this  afternoon.  We  hoped  to  hear 
this  evening  of  a  British  ultimatum  to  Germany,  but 
extras  are  no  longer  allowed.  No  news  from  Lon- 
don has  yet  reached  us. 

The  Artist  and  I  dined  with  the  Teacher  and  his 
wife.  The  Teacher  has  known  Germany  well  since 
student  days  in  Heidelberg,  and  has  received  many 
honors  and  widespread  recognition  in  the  land  of 
intensive  science.  But  his  type  of  mind  is  not  Ger- 
man, in  the  sense  of  what  we  mean  by  "German" 
to-day,  or  he  would  not  have  been  to  us  the  Teacher. 
We  dropped  the  subject  of  the  war.  We  were  glad 
to  talk  of  something  else. 

As  we  walked  homeward  through  the  silent  streets, 
our  minds  were  turned  back  over  the  span  of  years 
to  other  days. 


53 


V 

REQUISITIONING 

August  fifth. 

IT  is  regrettable  that  I  should  feel  compelled  to 
say  that  the  Cafe  de  la  Poste  is  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  du  Bac  and  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain. 
You  would  be  insulted  if  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
mention  the  location  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  And 
yet,  the  real  Paris  of  the  real  Parisian  can  be  seen 
better  from  the  foot  of  the  Boulevard  Raspail  than 
from  the  head  of  the  Avenue  de  1' Opera.  There 
you  pay  a  double  price  for  your  consommation  in 
order  to  watch  Paris  passing  by,  and  what  you  see 
is  tourists  passing  by.  You  look  on  them  as  part  of 
Paris,  and  they  look  on  you  as  part  of  Paris.  But 
the  man  with  the  picture  postal  cards  and  the  maps 
knows  both  you  and  them.  At  the  Cafe  de  la  Poste, 
on  the  other  hand,  you  are  in  Paris,  and  Parisians 
sit  there  watching  Parisians  pass  by.  You  see  the 
automobiles  and  the  phaetons  of  those  fashionables 
of  the  first  mark  who  would  look  upon  living  near 
the  Etoile  as  Fifth  Avenue  would  upon  living  in 
Hoboken  or  as  Grosvenor  Square  would  look  upon 

54 


REQUISITIONING 

living  in  one  of  those  places  for  which  you  have  to 
change  at  Clapham  Junction.  You  see,  too,  the 
shoppers  who  know  how  and  what,  passing  between 
the  Petit  St.  Thomas  and  the  Bon  Marche,  and 
cockers  and  chauffeurs  hovering  around  who  are 
looking  for  fares  upon  whose  tips  they  can  depend. 

I  had  been  waiting  for  almost  an  hour  when  I  was 
suddenly  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  Artist  was  stand- 
ing across  the  street  with  his  legs  spread  out  reminis- 
cently  of  shipboard,  twirling  absentmindedly  his 
bamboo  cane,  and  looking  up  at  a  batch  of  posters 
on  the  pedestal  of  the  statue  of  the  man  whom  the 
French  claim  to  have  got  there  before  Morse  and 
Marconi. 

I  slipped  quietly  across  the  street.  This  almost 
hazardous  feat  of  a  normal  mid-day  was  easily  and 
quickly  accomplished.  For  I  have  never  seen  Paris 
so  free  of  motor  vehicles.  It  was  the  reason  for  this 
that  was  engrossing  the  Artist's  attention. 

"Say,  old  man,"  was  his  greeting,  "d*  you  see  this 
notice  about  automobiles  being  presented  at  the  Es- 
planade des  Invalides  this  afternoon  for  requisition? 
How  about  going  along  after  we  have  got  our 
permits  for  the  front  from  the  War  Department? 
It  is  just  a  step  beyond  through  the  Rue  St.  Do- 
minique." 

Not  a  word  about  why  he  was  late,  or  even  that 
he  was  late.  But  the  enthusiasm  over  his  sugges- 

55 


PARIS  REBORN 

tions  (I  use  the  plural  advisedly,  for  I  had  no  more 
thought  of  the  permits  for  the  front  than  of  going 
to  the  requisitioning)  caused  me  to  forget  the  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  I  had  been  trying  to  make  a 
single  Dubonnet  hold  out. 

Over  a  luscious  steak  we  discussed  the  fascinating 
question  of  the  battle-line.  A  year  ago  I  had  given 
up  war  correspondence  for  good  and  all.  Rolling 
stones  may  gather  polish,  but  shining  is  n't  eating — 
you  understand  what  I  mean.  But  the  Artist  has  a 
way  with  him,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  truth  (even  if 
it  does  involve  the  risk  of  revealing  to  two  women 
that  their  husbands  are  not  yet  wholly  cured  of  that 
fatal  itch  for  adventure)  I  must  confess  that  we  be- 
gan to  plan  in  earnest  the  securing  of  passes  for  a 
trip  towards  the  Belgian  or  Alsatian  frontier.  I  say 
towards  rather  than  /<?,  because  bitter  experience  has 
often  *  taught  me  that  a  military  laissez-passer  is 
magic  only  until  you  try  to  use  it. 

Although  we  had  no  countersign  with  which  to 
cajole  the  sentry  at  the  great  gate  of  the  Ministry 
of  War,  we  managed  somehow  to  get  into  the  ante- 
chamber. There  we  learned  that  the  formal  order 
against  the  granting  of  laissez-passers  to  foreign  cor- 
respondents was  as  insurmountable  as  the  censor- 

1  In  reading  over  the  manuscript  my  remorseless  critic  cut  out  the 
word  "often"  on  the  ground  of  redundancy.  On  second  thought  she 
re-inserted  it,  with  the  remark  that  it  ought  to  be  redundant  but 
isn  't — at  least  in  my  case. 

56 


Requisitioning  automobiles  in  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides 


REQUISITIONING 

ship  of  telegrams.  When  enthusiasms  are  quickly 
brought  to  fever  heat,  they  cool  as  quickly.  Not 
only  did  we  resign  ourselves  to  the  inevitable 
with  very  good  grace,  but,  as  we  walked  towards  the 
Esplanade,  we  were  so  earnestly  explaining  to  each 
other  why,  after  all,  we  really  could  not  take  the 
time  to  go  to  the  front,  that  we  found  ourselves  at 
the  Hotel  des  Invalides  before  we  had  fully  im- 
pressed upon  each  other  that  already  existing  con- 
tracts with  editors  and  publishers  precluded  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  wild,  time-wasting  pursuit  as  going 
north  or  going  east  would  have  been. 

The  fourteen  veterans  who  went  through  the  Cri- 
mean War  and  the  twenty-three  who  knew  the  reason 
why  Napoleon  III  stopped  his  war  against  Austria 
after  Solferino  (but  of  course  their  lips  are  sealed) 
were  drawn  up  on  the  talus  by  the  cannon.  Never 
had  their  warrior  eyes  seen  such  a  sight  as  the  muster- 
ing of  horse  and  motor-drawn  vehicles  marshaled  in 
endless  rows  all  the  way  to  the  Seine.  Nor  had  our 
eyes,  or  any  other  eyes.  It  was  unique,  that  spec- 
tacle. 

We  spent  an  hour  wandering  back  and  forth  be- 
tween the  rows  of  automobiles  and  motor-trucks. 
From  the  little  racing  roadster,  with  just  room  for 
one,  to  the  furniture  van  in  which  a  concert  grand 
piano  would  be  lost,  and  the  truck  whose  load  of 
flour  would  feed  a  good-sized  town  for  a  week,  there 

59 


PARIS  REBORN 

was  nothing  missing.  Three-thousand-franc  run- 
abouts were  rubbing  wheels  in  cheeky  familiarity 
with  the  limousines  of  multi-millionaires.  Expen- 
sive varnish  of  the  Champs  Elysees  showroom  cast 
the  spell  of  its  luster  over  the  unpainted-for-years- 
and-then-not-painted-well  delivery  wagon  of  the 
Belleville  haberdashery.  The  host  of  the  great  de- 
partment store  was  encamped  beside  the  lone  senti- 
nel of  the  little  shop  of  the  outer  boulevards.  The 
model  of  1914  had  an  opportunity,  unknown  hereto- 
fore outside  of  world's  fairs,  of  blatantly  asserting 
its  superiority  to  the  pioneer  of  the  early  days  of 
motor  traction.  Then  there  were  the  types  of  horse- 
drawn  wagons.  These  were  not  so  plentiful. 
Either  gasoline  has  at  last  succeeded  in  demonstrat- 
ing its  superiority  to  oats  and  hay  or  that  which 
comes  after  a  horse  was  held  up  and  turned  back  be- 
fore it  reached  the  Esplanade. 

And  this  was  the  third  day  of  requisitioning! 

After  we  had  got  tired  of  trying  to  take  in  the 
full  extent  of  the  exhibit,  and  of  each  other's  super- 
ficial but  none  the  less  displayed  knowledge  of  types 
and  makes,  we  wandered  over  to  one  of  the  numer- 
ous bureaux  de  fortune,  where  the  requisitioning  of- 
ficers were  valuing  automobiles. 

In  time  of  war,  there  is  something  awe-inspir- 
ing about  the  wonderful  utility  and  adaptability  of 
universal  military  service.  Every  man  in  the  na- 

60 


REQUISITIONING 

tion  is  called  to  serve;  and  those  who  have  special 
technical  aptitude  of  a  character  that  can  be  used  to 
advantage  in  any  department  of  military  service  are 
immediately  set  to  employing  their  talents  in 
their  own  particular  field.  Here  was  a  rough 
wooden  table,  and  three  chairs.  A  clerk  in  uniform 
was  writing  at  the  table.  Two  other  clerks  in  uni- 
form had  before  them  card-catalogues.  A  sub-lieu- 
tenant of  reserve  was  inspecting  and  valuing  the  ma- 
chines. The  clerks  were  giving  for  a  sou  a  day  their 
services  to  the  government.  It  was  a  far  cry  from 
the  luxurious  appointments  of  the  shop  where,  if 
he  sold  two  motor  cars  a  week,  he  could  pay  a 
fancy  rent  and  earn  a  big  salary,  to  drawing  two 
francs  a  day  for  hard  work.  But  the  sub-lieutenant, 
in  whom  we  recognized  the  manager  of  one  of  the 
most  famous  automobile  firms  in  the  world,  seemed 
proud  and  happy  to  be  working  for  the  common 
weal  so  far  from  his  mahogany  desk  and  Teheran 
carpet.  There  was  no  fooling  one  of  the  smartest 
men  in  his  line  in  France.  He  knew  at  a  glance 
what  the  car  offered  was  worth  in  the  trade,  and 
how  much  the  government  would  be  justified  in  giv- 
ing for  it. 

In  the  case  of  cars  of  real  utility  where  the  fair 
trade  price  and  the  price  for  military  purposes  co- 
incided, there  was  no  question.  The  car  was  requi- 
sitioned. The  owner  took  his  paper  and  left. 

61 


PARIS  REBORN 

But  among  the  automobiles  de  luxe  there  were 
many  whose  value  was  larger  than  the  government 
would  be  justified  in  paying.  In  such  a  case  the 
choice  was  left  to  the  owner. 

It  was  here  that  we  came  back  to  the  old  axiom 
that  the  study  of  human  nature  is  after  all  the  most 
fascinating  thing  in  the  world.  One  would  suppose 
that  the  owner  of  an  automobile  de  luxe  could  afford 
to  make  some  sacrifice  such  as  the  clerk  sitting  at  the 
table  and  the  sub-lieutenant  were  compelled  to  make, 
without  which  sacrifice,  willingly  rendered,  France 
would  at  this  day  be  at  the  mercy  of  her  foe.  But 
there  are  some  who  have  more  in  this  world  because 
they  hold  tight  to  what  they  have. 

There  was  the  woman,  bejeweled  and  bepowdered, 
whose  eyes  flashed  with  indignation  when  the  sub- 
lieutenant communicated  to  her  the  price  offered, 
and  who  shook  her  head  in  positive  refusal.  She 
entered  the  limousine,  and  leaned  back  in  the  cush- 
ions, hugging  closely  the  little  dog  that  took  the  place 
of  a  baby  in  her  affections.  Her  chin  was  slightly 
elevated,  and  the  hard-as-nails  expression  of  her  face 
was  accentuated  as  she  ordered  the  chauffeur  to 
drive  off. 

And  then  there  was  the  dear  old  man  whose  rosette 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor  was  not  needed  to  proclaim 
his  worthiness  of  it.  He  nodded  in  a  kind  of  be- 
wildered fashion,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  other 

62 


REQUISITIONING 

things,  when  the  valuation  was  called  out.  A  re- 
ceipt was  offered  to  him.  He  waved  it  aside. 

"I  have  given  three  sons  to  France,"  he  said  sim- 
ply, in  a  voice  broken  and  yet  proud.  "I  think  this 
is  little  enough  to  add  to  that." 

Slowly  he  walked  away.  But  I  wot  that  he  was 
not  leaning  heavily  upon  his  cane  because  his  heart 
was  bowed  down  within  him. 


L 


VI 

LIEGE    HOLDS    FIRM 

August  seventh. 

IEGE  holds  firm.  Exactly  why  I  should  be 
fool  enough  to-day  to  think  that  the  war  is 
over  before  it  has  begun  I  cannot  analyze.  And  yet 
I  do  feel  that  way.  Every  one  feels  that  way. 
When  Madame  placed  my  coffee  on  the  zinc  bar  this 
morning,  her  face  was  smiling. 

"My  boys  will  soon  be  home,"  she  said  simply. 

This  took  my  breath  away.  I  did  not  dare  to 
contradict  her.  I  have  n't  contradicted  any  one  the 
whole  day  long.  I  started  out  not  wanting  to 
be  a  spoil  sport.  I  have  ended  up  by  becoming  in- 
toxicated myself.  This  is  Paris  on  the  seventh  day 
of  August.  From  the  depths  of  woe  we  have 
mounted  to  the  heights  of  joy.  It  is  only  three  days 
since  the  mad  crowds  besieged  the  grocery  stores  for 
provisions.  Now  we  see  on  the  walls  at  every  street 
corner  a  proclamation  of  the  Prefect  of  Police,  urging 
the  housewives  to  go  to  the  Halles  Centrales  to  buy 
the  provisions  that  are  spoiling  there  for  want  of 
purchasers.  But  Paris  wants  no  green  vegetables 


LIEGE  HOLDS  FIRM 

these  days.  The  people  are  too  busy  eating  up  the 
rice  and  lentils  and  dried  beans  they  laid  in  on  Mon- 
day and  Tuesday.1  Foolish,  is  it  not,  to  buy  fresh 
vegetables  when  you  have  money  invested  in  gro- 
ceries for  which  there  is  no  further  need? 

For  Lie'ge  holds  firm.  LI£GE  HOLDS  FIRM.  To 
walk  down  the  Rue  de  Rennes,  through  the  Rue  de 
Seine,  across  the  Pont  des  Arts,  across  the  courtyard 
of  the  Louvre,  and  through  the  Rue  Croix  des  Petits 
Champs  towards  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  this 
morning  was  like  an  Easter  Sunday  in  Russia  (with 
the  regrettable  omission  of  the  privilege  of  receiving 
and  bestowing  kisses;  for  one  sees  a  lot  of  pretty 
girls  upon  that  walk).  "Lie'ge  holds  firm!"  The 
cry  is  like — and  I  say  it  with  all  reverence — the 
"Christ  is  Risen !"  of  the  Russian  Easter.  For  it  is  a 
resurrection  of  hope  that  was  buried  for  the  moment 
under  the  paralysis  of  fear.  The  Parisians  see  in 
the  German  check  at  Lie'ge  nothing  less  than  salva- 
tion. 

Small  wonder  that  we  read  in  the  morning's  pa- 
pers a  decree  of  the  President  of  the  Republic,  be- 

1 1  was  wrong  in  writing  on  August  third  that  the  buyers  of 
stores  of  provisions  were  only  the  well-to-do  classes.  But  I  let  the 
statement  stand  in  the  text  of  my  narrative,  for  I  have  not  wanted 
to  change  the  "on-the-spur-of-the-moment"  freshness  of  the  record. 
Many  a  judgment  is  proved  erroneous  by  subsequent  events.  We 
see  only  one  day  at  a  time,  and  we  see  only  a  small  portion  of  the 
picture  on  the  day.  This  book  professes  to  be  no  more  than  the 
record  of  what  I  saw  and  how  I  felt  at  the  moment  of  writing. 

65 


PARIS  REBORN 

stowing  upon  the  city  of  Lie*ge  the  Cross  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honor. 

I  could  not  force  myself  to  get  interested  in  Otto- 
man history  of  the  fourteenth  century  at  the  library 
this  morning.  My  engagement  to  lunch  with  the 
Artist  was  not  until  half  past  twelve.  But  I  found 
myself  turning  in  my  books,  handing  my  bulletin  de 
sortie  to  the  severe  individual  with  the  cocked  hat 
who  guards  the  door  of  the  Salle  de  Travail,  and  hur- 
rying out  into  the  Rue  Richelieu — at  eleven  o'clock! 
Unfaithfulness  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  this  is, 
on  the  part  of  one  who  is  posing  as  a  research 
scholar. 

Some  impulse  drove  me  to  the  nearest  police  sta- 
tion, where  I  wrote  out  a  telegram  to  my  wife,  stat- 
ing that  Li£ge  is  the  tomb  of  German  pride.  I  re- 
ceived a  smile  of  warm  approval  with  the  censor's 
rubber  stamp.  The  same  smile  greeted  me  when  I 
handed  in  my  telegram  at  the  post-office.  "Lie'ge,"  I 
wired,  "is  the  tomb  of  German  pride."  It  is  so. 
Paris  is  freed  from  the  nightmare  of  a  bloody  war. 

And  then,  I  said  to  myself,  "Is  it  so*?"  I  thought 
of  the  laborious  years  of  German  preparation — their 
methods  and  their  army,  of  which  I  have  been  privi- 
leged to  know  and  see  so  much.  What  will  the  sober 
political  judgment,  the  keen  intuition  of  a  wife  who 
knows  Europe  to  the  sub-subchancelleries  think  of 
such  a  telegram1? 

66 


LIEGE  HOLDS  FIRM 

Feeling  that  I  needed  the  opinion  of  a  neutral,  I 
dropped  in  upon  the  Lawyer.  He  was  very  busy 
with  a  desk  full  of  important  documents,  and  had  no 
time  to  talk  it  over.  But  he  had  time  to  beam  upon 
me  for  a  brief  moment. 

"It  is  finished,  finished,  I  tell  you !  The  Germans 
intended  to  fall  on  Paris  like  a  whirlwind!  Lie*ge 
has  fooled  them.  All  the  plans  of  the  German  Gen- 
eral Staff  gone  up  in  smoke!"  And  he  waved  his 
pen  aloft  as  he  turned  back  in  his  swivel  chair  to  his 
work. 

."See  you  to-night,  or  to-morrow  night,  at  five. 
We  '11  celebrate.  To  think  of  living  forty-four 
years  under  an  idle  menace !" 

As  I  walked  through  the  Tuileries  to  my  rendez- 
vous with  the  Artist,  I  thought  to  myself  that  the 
Lawyer  was  a  pretty  poor  sort  of  neutral  to  have 
gone  to  for  an  opinion.  When  it  comes  to  Germans, 
his  keen  legal  mind  is  worthless.  For  who  insult  or 
belittle  or  attack  France  are  to  him  beyond  the  pale 
of  civilization.  Since  the  war  started,  he  is  the 
first  whom  I  remember  to  have  heard  call  the  Ger- 
mans by  their  now  common  name  of  Barbarians.  . 

So,  as  I  walked  along  the  Rue  du  Bac,  I  thought 
of  the  Italian  Grocer,  whose  Chianti  and  black  olives 
have  no  equal  in  Paris.  I  found  him  slicing  York- 
shire ham  for  an  excited  mite  of  a  grandmother.  She 
was  pouring  into  his  ears  the  virtues  of  the  Belgian 

67 


PARIS  REBORN 

nation.  He  was  agreeing  with  her,  and  there  was  a 
sincerity  in  his  tone  that  bespoke  more  than  the  per- 
functory assent  of  the  seller  to  the  buyer's  whim. 

As  the  little  woman  went  out  of  the  shop,  clutch- 
ing and  waving  her  package  of  ham  with  the  hand 
free  of  the  stick,  and  still  paeaning,  the  Italian 
Grocer  turned  from  the  till  with  an  enquiring  expres- 
sion that  took  in  all  his  attractive  etalage,  from  the 
hams  hanging  on  the  rafters  to  the  kegs  of  pickles 
and  herrings  nestling  close  to  the  sawdust. 

"No,  I  want  nothing  to-day,  Luigi.  Madame  is 
still  in  the  country,  and  I  am  eating  out.  But,  on 
the  strength  of  our  friendship  begun  so  many  years 
ago  through  the  discovery  of  the  fact  that  you  could 
supply  American  canned  sugar  corn,  I  ask  your  opin- 
ion on  the  significance  of  the  German  check  at 
Liege." 

"I  have  served  about  two  hundred  customers  this 
morning,"  he  replied,  "and  you  know  how  frequency 
of  assent  brings  belief." 

"There  's  where  I  am,"  I  complained.  "I  have 
got  so  enthusiastic  about  this  Li£ge  business  that  I 
telegraphed  my  wife  this  morning  that  it 's  all  up 
with  the  Germans." 

"So  it  is,"  he  cried. 

''So  it  is,"  I  echoed. 

A  crowd  of  half -grown  boys  was  passing  in  the 
street,  carrying  Belgian  flags  and  making  a  rather 
-  68 


LIEGE  HOLDS  FIRM 

unsuccessful,  but  none  the  less  hearty,  attempt  to 
sing  the  Brabangonne.  The  Italian  Grocer  and 
I  parted  with  a  warm  handshake.  A  man  of  under- 
standing, the  Italian  Grocer. 


VII 

WE    HEAR   THE    GOOD    NEWS    FROM    ALSACE 


August  ninth. 

1WAS    walking   down    the    "Boul    Mich"    this 
morning  when  I  met  the  Musical  Critic,  whose 
pickings  are  pretty  poor  these  days.     He  was  full  of 
the  rumors  of  a  great — no,  more  than  that — decisive 
battle  in  Alsace  yesterday. 

"It  is  all  up  with  the  Germans,  thank  God,"  he 
cried,  dancing  on  one  leg,  just  as  in  the  old  days 
when  he  played  first  base  for  the  Freshman  nine. 
"Now  they'll  pull  in  their  horns,  and  call  quits. 
Then  the  theaters  and  opera  will  be  opening,  and  I  '11 
get  what  I  came  to  Europe  this  summer  for." 

"Not  so  fast,"  I  responded.  "I  've  been  behind 
the  scenes  on  a  newspaper  myself,  and,  although  I 
ought  not  to  presume  to  give  points  to  a  musical 
critic  about — well,  let  us  drop  into  the  Johnsonian 
period  and  call  it  prevarication,  might  I  humbly  sug- 
gest the  possibility  of  the  news  not  being  true^" 

He  looked  blank.  I  hastened  to  add,  "But  since 
you  are  talking  about  thanking  God,  would  n't  you 
like  to  come  to  the  American  Church  with  me  this 
morning1?" 

70 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

That  was  too  much  for  a  musical  critic.  He 
bolted. 

I  walked  along  the  quays  to  the  Grand  Palais, 
where  the  first  British  soldiers  to  arrive  in  Paris  were 
just  being  assigned  quarters.  Such  a  merry,  enthusi- 
astic crowd  had  gathered  to  greet  them,  and  such 
cordiality  and  sincerity  in  the  greeting.  The  days 
of  Fashoda  and  the  Boer  War  are  of  another  genera- 
tion. How  quickly  bygones  are  bygones !  It  is  for- 
tunate for  the  human  race  that  it  is  so. 

I  passed  through  the  Rue  Francois  Premier  and 
the  Rue  Bayard  to  reach  the  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees.  I  had  a  note  to  leave  for  the  pastor  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland.  An  elder  with  a  rather  wor- 
ried face  met  me  at  the  door. 

"I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  no  service  this  day," 
he  said.  "The  minister  was  in  Scotland  on  his  va- 
cation, and  I  fear  me  that  he  has  not  been  able  to  get 
back." 

"If  it  is  a  parson  you  need,"  I  answered,  "and  you 
have  a  gown  that  will  cover  me,  I  can  help  you  out, 
if  you  do  not  mind  having  an  American  Presbyte- 
rian." 

"And  would  ye?"  he  exclaimed. 

I  did.  It  was  a  solemn  occasion  for  that  little 
band  of  worshipers  in  a  foreign — though  now  allied 
— land.  For  this  is  Scotland's  war  as  well  as  Eng- 
land's, and  it  would  have  seemed  a  calamity  for  them 

71 


PARIS  REBORN 

not  to  have  had  in  the  national  church  in  Paris  the 
prayers  said  for  the  nation  on  this  first  Sunday  of  the 
war.  Life  in  the  living  is  far  more  fascinating  than 
in  the  imagination.  It  was  my  lot  four  years  ago 
to  preach  here  in  Paris  in  the  English  Wesleyan 
Church  a  funeral  sermon  for  King  Edward.  The 
man  upon  whose  head  the  hands  have  once  been 
placed  in  ordination  finds  frequently — and  in  most 
unexpected  ways — that  he  is  turned  back,  and  he 
sees  the  handle  of  the  plow.  But  let  me  not  un- 
weave the  spell  with  words ! 

After  lunch  with  the  Artist,  we  went  to  a  patriotic 
service  at  the  Madeleine.  The  Madeleine,  with  its 
columns  and  solid  walls,  may  evoke  the  atmosphere 
of  classicism  without;  but  within,  when  many  people 
gather  together  on  a  summer  afternoon,  it  suggests 
atmosphere  in  a  different  and  altogether  unesthetic 
sense.  So  we  got  out. 

As  we  passed  down  the  broad  steps  into  the  Rue 
Royale,  we  were  stopped  by  two  policemen,  who  asked 
if  we  were  mobilisables.  It  was  to  me,  rather  than 
to  the  Artist,  that  they  addressed  the  question.  For, 
when  the  Artist  sports  his  shapeless  London  suit,  he 
looks  as  much  like  an  Englishman  as  any  American 
could.  (There  are  some  Americans  who  can  pass 
for  Englishmen  when  they  are  not  busy  or  when 
they  do  not  open  their  mouths.)  My  answer  was 
honest  when  I  said  that  I  was  sorry  to  say  that  I  was 

72 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

not  liable  for  military  service  in  France.  If  ever  I 
have  wanted  to  go  to  war  since  the  age  limit  barred 
me  from  getting  interned  at  Camp  Alger  in  1898,  it 
has  been  since  the  present  call  to  arms  was  posted. 
Looking  on  while  others  go  has  not  always  been  com- 
fortable these  past  eight  days. 

When  we  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the 
Artist  grabbed  my  arm. 

"Look!"  he  said;  "see  what  they  have  done  to  the 
statue  of  Strasbourg!" 

The  large  black  bow  and  the  draperies  of  crepe 
had  disappeared.  The  mourning  wreaths  were  re- 
moved. In  her  arms  Strasbourg  now  holds  the  flag 
and  the  flowers  of  France.  We  started  across  for  a 
closer  inspection. 

Just  then  an  infantry  division  and  a  battery  of 
artillery  came  through  the  Place  on  the  way  to  the 
Gare  de  1'Est. 

Although  there  was  no  band — music  has  not  been 
heard  in  Paris  since  the  mobilization  started — the 
coming  was  sensed.  For  out  of  every  building  and 
side  street  people  began  to  gather. 

The  soldiers  had  evidently  been  given  a  rousing 
send-off  from  the  Champ  de  Mars,  and  had  been 
showered  with  gifts  en  route.  Each  man  was  a  walk- 
ing florist.  There  were  flowers  in  the  barrels  of  rifles, 
tucked  in  belts,  pinned  on  caps,  and  peeping  out  from 
knapsacks.  The  gun  carriages  and  ammunition 

73 


PARIS  REBORN 

wagons  were  so  covered  with  flowers  that  you  did  not 
think  of  them  as  engines  of  destruction.  After  each 
regiment  came  wagons  piled  with  loaves  of  bread. 
The  bread  was  hardly  visible  under  its  covering  of 
flowers,  fruits,  sundry  bottles,  packages  of  chocolate, 
tins  of  pate  de  foie  gras  and  other  delicacies,  Frank- 
furter— excuse  me,  Touraine — sausages,  and  hams. 
The  soldiers  were  not  youngsters  of  the  standing 
army,  but  men  of  from  thirty  to  forty,  young  and  gay 
once  more,  and  with  an  entrain  which  made  up  for 
their  lack  of  military  appearance  and  military  gait. 
Women  were  actually  marching  in  the  ranks  with 
some  of  them.  But  there  were  no  handkerchiefs  out 
among  these  wives  and  sweethearts  holding  on  till 
the  last  moment. 

The  crowd  began  to  cheer  lustily,  and  to  sing 
the  Marseillaise.  I  looked  for  the  line  to  break 
when  the  Strasbourg  statue  was  passed.  It  did  not. 
Discipline  restrained  that  far.  But,  with  a  sudden 
inspiration  such  as  could  come  only  to  the  Gallic 
mind,  the  first  soldiers  started  to  throw  their  flowers 
up  on  the  statue. 

"Here 's  for  thee,  Strasbourg!"  they  cried.  "Thy 
daughters  will  give  us  more !" 

On  the  way  to  Marie's,  where  the  Sculptor  was 
waiting  for  us  to  dine  with  him,  newsboys  began  to 
appear,  crying  again  the  incredible  news  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Altkirch,  and  the  entry  of  the  French  troops 

74 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

into  Mulhouse.  We  stopped  to  buy  a  paper.  There 
was  a  splendid  proclamation  of  General  Joffre  to 
the  Alsatians.  It  made  our  blood  tingle.  For  we 
have  both  lived  in  France  long  enough  to  be  senti- 
mental about  "the  Lost  Provinces."  Was  it  really 
coming  true,  the  never-old  dream  of  reconquest  and 
la  revanche? 

The  spirit  of  a  fete  day  was  in  the  air.  Every 
kiosk  was  besieged  by  those  who  were  waiting  for  the 
Temps  and  the  Journal  des  Debdts.  The  one-sou 
sheets  sold  by  the  newsboys  do  not  inspire  much 
faith  in  the  Parisian  heart.  If  news  is  of  little  mo- 
ment, belief  from  the  announcements  in  the  yellow 
press  is  easy.  But  these  crowds  waiting  for  the 
Temps  were  an  indication  of  how  deeply  the  ru- 
mored successes  in  Alsace  had  stirred  the  heart  of 
Paris.  When  a  thing  means  very  much  to  you, 
whether  of  good  or  bad,  you  fear  to  believe  it  until 
it  is  asserted  by  one  in  whose  word  you  can  trust.  I 
have  had  occasion  to  experience  myself,  and  to  ob- 
serve in  others,  that  this  fact  is  more  true  of  good 
news  than  of  bad  news.  Is  it  not  a  mistake,  the 
proverbial  assertion  that  one  refuses  to  believe  bad 
news'?  Does  it  not  depend  entirely  upon  how  vital 
that  news  is*?  When  our  heart  is  in  a  thing,  we — 
I  speak  of  mankind  in  general — accept  much  more 
quickly  failure  than  we  do  success. 

As  we  crossed  the  Boulevard  Raspail,  a  bicycle 

75 


PARIS  REBORN 

carrier  was  just  arriving  at  the  little  shop  on  the 
Rue  Brea,  diagonally  opposite  the  Cafe  du  Dome. 
We  got  there  in  time  to  buy  a  paper ;  for  the  Artist 
and  I  are  both  fairly  husky. 

It  was  true.  The  battle  of  Altkirch,  the  occupa- 
tion of  Mulhouse  and  the  text  of  the  proclamation 
of  General  Joffre  were  reported  in  the  Temps  exactly 
as  given  in  the  yellow  papers.  What  an  opportunity 
is  lost  by  this  rigid  method  of  concise  official  state- 
ment! I  could  picture  myself  rushing  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  sending  off  a  long  account  of  how 
frontier  posts  were  torn  up  and  how  Alsatian  girls 
were  throwing  their  arms  around  the  necks  of  the 
French  soldiers,  crying  tears  of  joy  down  their  shirt- 
fronts.  No,  that  would  not  do;  the  soldiers  do  not 
wear  shirts,  or,  if  they  did,  they  would  not  still  have 
had  them  when  they  reached  Mulhouse.  "Upon 
their  manly  chests,"  would  be  nearer  the  truth — if 
near  at  all. 

The  Sculptor  was  already  there  when  we  reached 
Marie's.  He  had  saved  a  table  for  us  on  the  ter- 
race, where  we  sat  over  our  honest  substantial  soup, 
and  our  workingmen's  portions  of  boeuf  bourguig- 
non,  splitting  a  bottle  of  extra  in  celebration  of  the 
momentous  news.  Who  has  not  dined  on  the  ter- 
race of  a  restaurant  frequented  by  cockers  has  not 
tasted  to  the  full  the  summer  life  of  Paris.  You 
order  your  portion  of  fried  potatoes.  "Fr-r-rites!" 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

shouts  the  black-eyed  waitress  from  the  sidewalk. 
Grandfather,  washing  glasses  behind  the  zinc  bar, 
takes  up  the  cry.  "Fr-r-rites!"  goes  back  to  the 
kitchen  in  his  falsetto  voice.  From  the  little  trap- 
door window,  amidst  the  sputtering  noise  of  hot 
grease  poured  into  a  frying-pan,  reechoes  the  magic 
word,  "Fr-r-rites!"  And  you  lean  back  in  your 
chair,  a  deep  feeling  of  well-being  pulsing  through 
you,  as  you  anticipate  the  steaming  dish  of  golden 
brown  food  for  the  gods  that  will  soon  be  placed  be- 
fore you. 

This  evening  Marie  told  us  that  the  decree  for 
early  closing  had  been  modified.  It  still  held  true 
that  nothing  to  drink  was  to  be  served  after  eight 
o'clock,  and  that  the  tables  must  be  removed  from 
the  sidewalks,  but,  inside,  one  could  linger  over  m\ 
meal  until  half  past  nine,  provided  he  had  entered 
the  restaurant  and  given  his  order  before  eight 
o'clock.  So  we  moved  indoors  for  coffee,  and  for  the 
chance  to  discuss  the  good  news  from  Alsace  with 
other  diners. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  interior  (for  Marie  says 
that  she  cannot  afford  these  days  to  use  the  gas,  and 
she  is  very  much  worried  over  the  rumors  that  pe- 
troleum will  give  out  or  soon  be  sold  only  at  its 
weight  in  gold)  we  sat  at  the  biggest  marble-topped 
table  in  the  corner,  and  talked  over  the  march  of 
events  in  the  Lost  Provinces  with  the  Hunchback. 

77 


PARIS  REBORN 

A  dear  old  man  the  Hunchback  is,  whose  face  is 
marked  by  lines  of  sensitive  shrinking  rather  than 
by  the  creases  of  his  threescore  years  and  ten.  He 
has  the  delicacy  of  perception  of  the  cripple,  for 
whom  the  strong  virile  thoughts  of  manhood  must  be 
reflected  in  the  attuning  of  the  chords  of  the  soul 
rather  than  in  muscular  activity. 

His  winsome  expression  would  have  attracted  a 
Michelangelo,  in  search  of  a  model  for  an  angel. 
Often  have  I  seen  him  hold  men  who  have  done 
big  things  in  life  with  the  intense  fire  of  his  black 
eyes,  and  the  almost  Russian  deepness  and  sweet- 
ness of  his  speaking  voice.  His  diction  is  so  marvel- 
ous that  one  hesitates  to  try  to  reproduce  what  the 
Hunchback  says,  especially  in  translation.  It  is  so 
wide  of  the  mark!  But  I  make  the  attempt  here, 
while  the  spell  is  still  upon  me,  for  he  spoke  as  the 
interpreter  of  the  feeling  that  must  this  day  be  tear- 
ing the  heart  of  the  lame  cobbler  of  Saverne  whom 
Von  Forstner  sabered. 

"I  was  a  boy  in  an  Alsatian  village,"  he  said,  "in 
the  old  days.  There  were  reasons,  not  unconnected 
with  me,  why  my  family  felt  it  best  to  become  ex- 
patriates after  the  Treaty  of  Frankfurt.  I  have 
lived  ever  since  in  Paris. 

"I  would  to  God  that  my  father  and  mother 
could  read  the  newspapers  this  evening.  For,  in- 
stead of  dying  as  they  did  without  hope,  they  could 

78 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

have  gone  like  Simeon  with  a  Nunc  Dimittis  on  their 
lips. 

"I  could  hear  you  talking  on  the  terrace  outside. 
You  were  discussing  that  famous  cartoon  of  Hansi, 
Ceux  Qui  N'Oublient  Pas,  which  we  have  seen  these 
last  days  in  every  bookseller's  window.  It  is  only 
the  ignorance  of  youth  that  thinks  a  soul  wound  can 
be  healed.  A  sorrow  in  connection  with  one's  coun- 
try is  like  a  sorrow  in  connection  with  one's  family. 
What  one  has  truly  loved,  when  lost,  one  never 
ceases  to  mourn.  If  one  ceases  to  mourn,  it  shows 
that  love  for  that  which  has  been  lost  never  truly 
dominated  the  whole  being. 

"The  cartoon  of  Hansi  is  absolutely  true  to  life. 
There  are  those,  for  the  scythe  of  the  Reaper  has  not 
yet  taken  them  all,  who  do  not  forget. 

"Just  the  other  day  I  was  reading  in  a  newspaper 
a  story  which  may  not  be  true,  but  it  might  have 
been  true,  and  so  it  is  the  same  thing.  Let  me  re- 
peat it  to  you  as  I  remember  it,  and  then  perhaps  you 
will  understand. 

"As  the  hopeless  years  of  the  German  occupation 
rolled  on,  there  were  those  whose  business  interests 
influenced  them  to  take  as  inevitable  what  a  greater 
faith  and  a  higher  ideal  would  have  enabled  them  to 
continue  to  regard  as  transitory.  They  accepted  the 
Germans,  entered  into  business  relations  with  them, 
and  allowed  their  children  to  grow  up  as  Germans. 

79 


PARIS  REBORN 

It  is  not  for  me  to  judge.  They  are  receiving  their 
punishment  now. 

"The  story  goes  that  among  the  Irreconcilables 
was  an  abbe,  who  played  the  organ  in  the  cathedral 
at  Strasbourg.  Like  all  abbes,  he  had  a  family  by 
adoption.  Among  his  intimate  friends  was  a 
widower  with  a  baby  girl.  The  abbe  used  to  go 
there  every  Sunday  night  for  supper.  He  gave  his 
heart  to  that  baby.  But  his  friend  became  rec- 
onciled to  the  Germans.  The  abbe  never  spoke  to 
him  again. 

"Years  passed,  and  both  men  began  to  feel  the 
weight  of  them.  There  never  was  any  attempt  on 
the  abbe's  part  to  bridge  the  gulf,  and  he  was  not 
one  of  the  kind  to  whom  overtures  could  be  made. 
One  day,  his  former  friend  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  stopped.  He  grabbed  the  abbe's  arm. 

"  'It  is  years  since  you  have  acknowledged  my 
greeting.  But  to-day  you  must  listen  to  me.  For 
the  sake  of  the  past,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you 
for  my  little  girl.  She  is  little  no  longer,  but  she, 
who  knew  no  mother,  has  never  forgotten  you.  She 
is  to  be  married  in  the  cathedral  next  week,  and  she 
has  asked  me  to  go  to  you  and  tell  you  that  she  wants 
you  to  play  the  organ  at  her  wedding.  My  doing 
her  bidding  is  all  the  more  difficult  when  I  say  that 
she  is  marrying  a  Prussian  officer.' 

"There  was  a  moment's  pause.  The  friend  could 
80 


WE  HEAR  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  ALSACE 

not  read  behind  the  mask  of  the  abbe's  face.     He 
waited. 

"  'So  be  it,'  answered  the  abbe  simply;  'I  shall 
be  at  the  organ  on  that  day.' 

"The  nuptial  mass  attracted  to  the  cathedral  a 
great  crowd,  not  only  because  of  the  interest  in  the 
wedding,  but  because  the  whole  city  knew  the 
estrangement  between  the  abbe  and  his  friend,  the 
reason  for  it,  and  that  now  the  abbe  had  consented 
to  play  at  this  wedding. 

"After  a  nuptial  mass,  you  know,  the  bride  and 
groom  receive,  before  the  signing  of  the  register,  the 
congratulations  of  their  friends.  It  was  at  this  mo- 
ment that  the  abbe  began  to  improvise  upon  the 
great  organ.  Suddenly,  mixed  with  the  hymeneal 
melodies,  one  began  to  hear  the  notes  of  Die  Wacht 
am  Rhein.  Every  one  was  glad — that  is,  of  the 
bridal  party — for  it  seemed  to  be  a  delicate  way  of 
signifying  forgiveness  after  years  of  bitter  silence. 
But  the  triumphal  notes  of  the  German  marching 
air  did  not  last  long.  It  was  merely  a  suggestion. 
Petrified,  the  audience  began  to  distinguish  in  the 
distance  the  coming  of  the  Marseillaise,  that  great 
hymn  born  in  Strasbourg  in  the  soul  of  one  of  her 
children.  As  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein  faded  away, 
the  Marseillaise  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  until 
the  cry  of  the  abbe's  soul  echoed  and  reechoed  to  the 
vaults  of  the  cathedral. 

81 


PARIS  REBORN 

"When  they  recovered  from  their  stupefaction  at 
the  insult  to  the  groom  and  the  daring  of  the  high 
treason,  members  of  the  wedding  party  hurried  to 
the  organ  loft  to  stop  the  organist.  They  burst  in 
upon  the  abbe.  His  head  was  bent  over  the  instru- 
ment, and  his  hands  were  not  faltering.  But,  be- 
fore they  could  reach  him,  the  crash  of  a  body  falling 
across  the  keyboard  caused  the  music  to  cease.  The 
soul  had  gone  out  with  the  music.  There  was  one 
who  did  not  forget." 

Our  glasses  were  untouched.  Marie  had  sat 
down  with  us,  and  she  was  gazing  at  the  Hunch- 
back with  parted  lips.  If  her  eyes  were  like  mine, 
and  I  am  sure  they  were,  she  was  gazing  at  him 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

Suddenly  Marie  looked  at  the  clock.  She  sprang 
up  with  a  start. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  cried.  "I  have  forgotten  the 
regulation.  The  police  will  come  to  fine  me! 
You  must  all  go  home  right  away.  Georgine,  bring 
the  lamp  from  the  window." 

We  went  out  into  the  night. 


82 


VIII 

BLIND,    BUT    THEY    KNEW    IT    NOT 

August  eleventh. 

IT  is  very  evident  that  many  of  my  countrymen 
do  not  believe  that  "a  man's  life  consisteth  not 
in  the  abundance  of  the  things  that  he  hath." 

There  are  about  three  thousand  American  tourists 
caught  in  Paris  by  the  mobilization.  In  the  region 
of  the  Opera,  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  the 
Rue  Scribe,  the  Rue  Auber,  and  in  the  hotels  be- 
tween the  Boulevard  des  Capucines  and  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  one  would  think  from  the  noise  they  make 
that  they  are  three  hundred  thousand — or  three  mil- 
lion— and  that  the  one  imperative  question  of  the 
moment  is  not  the  great  tragedy  into  which  Europe 
is  rushing  headlong,  but  the  personal  comfort  of  the 
few  whose  holiday  has  been  interrupted.  This  does 
not,  of  course,  apply  to  Americans  in  general.  We 
are,  on  the  whole,  a  rather  decent  lot.  But  there 
is  a  class  of  tourists  from  the  United  States  which 
has  a  faculty  of  making  itself  heard.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  is  heard  sufficiently  to  stamp  the  rest  of 
us. 

83 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  whole  thought  in  the  mind  of  these  Ameri- 
cans is  of  themselves,  their  spoiled  vacation  tour, 
their  missed  steamship  passages,  their  difficulty  in 
getting  money,  and  their  annoyance  at  having  to 
comply  with  the  reasonable  precaution  about  regis- 
tering demanded  of  them  by  the  proclamation  of 
the  state  of  siege. 

Many  will  return  to  New  York  full  of  disgust  and 
"righteous  indignation."  No,  sir!  they  are  never 
coming  to  Europe  again,  after  the  way  they  have 
been  treated.  Trunks  missing*?  Preposterous! 
Only  two  courses  for  dinner  at  the  hotel4?  Out- 
rageous! No  trains  for  Calais  and  Boulogne*? 
The  United  States  government  ought  to  protest 
vigorously  against  this  barbarous  treatment  of 
its  citizens!  Go  to  the  police  station?  A  com- 
plaint ought  to  be  lodged  with  the  Ambassa- 
dor! 

I  have  just  been  to  my  bank,  and  am  sick  at  heart. 
It  is  still  as  it  was  on  the  day  that  the  moratorium 
was  declared.  No  one  there  is  thinking  of  the  woe 
and  the  misery  that  has  fallen  upon  the  world,  and 
of  the  anguish  of  the  nation  which  has  so  hospitably 
received  them  and  entertained  them,  ministering  to 
their  every  want  with  a  care  and  a  success  attested 
by  their  eagerness  to  come  here  and  stay  here — as 
long  as  the  ministration  kept  up.  There  seem  to  be 
only  two  questions  in  their  minds,  "Can  I  get  any 

84 


BLIND,  BUT  THEY  KNEW  IT  NOT 

money?"  and  "How  soon  can  I  get  away  from 
here?" 

I  walked  down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Every  shop 
was  shut — fittingly  shut.  This  is  the  day  of  tears 
and  not  of  jewels  and  of  fine  clothes.  Near  the 
Vendome  Column  a  voice  hailed  me.  I  turned,  and 
saw  a  woman  to  whom  Paris  had  ministered  so  well 
to  the  healing  of  a  great  sorrow  some  years  ago  that 
she  had  become  a  resident  of  the  city.  I  started  to 
speak  of  the  war,  but  the  first  words  were  hers. 

"Did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  anything  more  dis- 
gusting?" she  exclaimed.  "I  had  to  come  up  from 
the  country  naturally,  because  I  did  n't  know  what 
was  going  to  happen,  and  I  could  get  no  money 
there.  Here  I  am  marooned.  There  is  no  way  of 
getting  out  of  the  city  comfortably.  What  can  one 
do  here?  The  theaters  are  closed;  you  cannot  go 
to  a  cafe  for  dinner;  there  isn't  a  bit  of  music;  I 
can't  even  do  any  shopping;  and  at  every  turn  peo- 
ple want  to  talk  to  you  about  this  disgusting  war, 
which  does  n't  interest  us  at  all.  Is  n't  it  a  bore?" 

What  I  was  going  to  say — what  I  felt  like  say- 
ing— was  best  left  unsaid.  I  murmured  a  common- 
place remark,  lifted  my  hat,  and  hurried  on. 

In  the  corridor  of  a  great  hotel  I  met  a  porter  who 
is  a  familiar  figure  to  American  residents  in  Paris. 
I  asked  him  the  usual  questions. 

"Yes,  I  go  to-night,"  he  told  me.  "Yes,  wife 
85 


PARIS  REBORN 

and  three  babies.  She  could  get  work  here  in  the 
hotel,  but  we  are  expecting  another  baby  next 
month." 

I  passed  in.  The  brilliant  hall  was  full  of  well- 
dressed  Americans,  drinking  afternoon  tea  and  high- 
balls. 

At  one  table  I  heard,  "I  went  a  third  time  to  the 
baggage-room  of  the  railway  station  to-day,  and  I 
told  him  the  trunks  were  registered  in  Switzerland, 
here  was  the  slip,  and  I  wanted  no  more  fooling. 
He  said  the  trunks  were  not  there.  When  I  in- 
sisted, he  got  quite  rude.  These  French  are  a  good- 
for-nothing  lot  of  thieves — " 

At  the  next  table,  a  big,  thick-jowled,  assertive 
man,  with  a  two-franc  cigar  wobbling  in  the  left 
corner  of  his  mouth  as  he  talked,  was  pounding  with 
his  fist.  "I  told  'em  that  they  simply  must  give 
me  two  thousand  francs:  there  was  the  letter  of 
credit  all  O.K.  But  they  told  me  I  could  have  only 
five  hundred.  It  was  my  money  they  were  holding 
back  on  me.  My  wife  wanted  some  new  dresses. 
You  can  just  bet  that  John  Jones  will  never  deal 
with  that  bank  again.  And  I  '11  see  to  it  they  lose 
so  much  business  that  they'll  pay  heavily  for  turn- 
ing me  down." 

The  guest  for  whom  I  was  looking  was  not  in. 
I  was  glad  to  get  into  the  open  air.  When  I 
turned  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  a  shopkeeper  was 

86 


BLIND,  BUT  THEY  KNEW  IT  NOT 

just  leaving.  A  small  kit  was  in  his  hand.  He  was 
stuffing  a  package  of  sandwiches  into  his  pocket. 
Arms  were  thrown  around  his  neck.  There  was  a 
wild  sob,  and  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  a  self- 
possessed  woman  drew  back  into  the  doorway. 

"I  '11  keep  things  going  while  you  're  gone,"  she 
smiled  through  her  tears. 

From  her  skirts  a  sturdy  youngster  peeped  out 
uncomprehendingly.  As  the  man  started  down  the 
street,  he  cried,  "Come  home  soon,  papa." 


IX 

THOSE    THEY    LEFT    BEHIND    THEM 


August  twelfth. 


IF  a  visitor  were  to  arrive  for  the  first  time  in 
Paris  to-day,  he  would  find  nothing  to  indicate 
that  the  fate  of  France  is  being  decided  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  the  city.  Only  one  familiar  with 
the  Paris  of  a  normal  August  would  note  that  there 
are  fewer  automobiles  and  no  autobusses,  and  that 
there  are  less  shoppers  than  usual.  The  under- 
ground railways  and  the  surface  tramways  are  run- 
ning. Train  service  to  the  suburbs  and  to  the  sea- 
shore has  been  resumed.  Most  of  the  shops  have 
opened  again.  Not  until  evening  does  one  realize 
that  this  is  a  different  Paris. 

What  boils  over  quickly,  as  quickly  cools.  No 
people  in  the  world  are  more  adaptable  than  the 
Parisians.  They  have  already  adjusted  themselves 
to  the  fact  that  the  titanic  struggle  has  commenced, 
and  that  the  city  has  been  drained  of  its  virile,  mas- 
culine element.  The  confusion  of  the  mobilization 
is  over.  The  fear  of  a  sudden  German  raid  upon 
the  city  has  been  allayed.  The  Parisians  left  be- 


THOSE  THEY  LEFT  BEHIND  THEM 

hind  are  beginning,  perforce,  to  think  of  other  things 
than  the  war.  The  life  of  a  great  metropolis  can- 
not be  upset  for  many  days. 

And  yet  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  that  the 
Parisians  are  over-confident,  and  that  they  do  not 
realize  the  enormousness  of  the  struggle  upon  which 
their  country  has  embarked.  They  have  simply  ac- 
cepted the  fact  that  the  war  is  on,  that  men  must  die, 
that  battles  will  probably  be  lost.  In  spite  of  the 
initial  check  at  Liege  and  the  successful  raid  into 
Alsace,  they  do  not  forget  that  the  bulk  of  the  Ger- 
man army  is  yet  to  be  faced,  and  that  the  testing 
time  is  still  ahead.  The  surprising  events  of  the 
past  week,  so  utterly  unexpected,  have  not  brought 
exultation  and  premature  rejoicing.  Facing  any 
task  worth  while  is  appalling.  But  the  necessity  of 
effort  brings  dismay  only  when  one  has  not  counted 
the  cost,  or  is  unwilling  to  pay  the  price  of  success. 
Paris  has  counted  the  cost.  There  is  readiness  for 
the  sacrifice. 

The  quiet,  earnest  resolution  of  the  French  be- 
lies the  charge  that  they  are  a  degenerate  and  di- 
vided race.  Is  there  anything  in  the  world  more 
admirable,  more  inspiring,  than  to  see  a  people 
whose  women  have  the  willingness  and  the  ability 
to  do  their  husbands'  work  when  the  men  are  fight- 
ing? The  tramways,  the  underground  railways,  the 
cabs,  and  the  shops  are  being  run,  and  run  well,  by 

89 


PARIS  REBORN 

that  other  army  of  France,  which  has  mobilized  it- 
self for  service  at  home.  The  government,  with  the 
supplementary  calls  for  the  classes  of  1914  and 
1915,  has  sent  to  the  front,  or  put  into  some  sort 
of  official  service,  practically  every  able-bodied  man 
in  Paris  under  forty-five  years  of  age.  For  all  this, 
everything  moves  in  Paris  almost  as  if  the  men  had 
not  gone. 

The  strongest  hope  for  the  final  victory  of  France 
is  the  character  of  her  women.  Instead  of  repining 
and  grieving  and  worrying,  the  women  of  Paris  are 
bearing  successfully  the  burden  of  their  husbands' 
work  in  addition  to  that  of  their  own.  And  they 
are  doing  it  with  a  smile  on  their  faces.  If  the  tears 
were  not  all  shed  at  the  moment  of  parting,  they 
are  saved  for  the  night  watches.  There  is  no  more 
important  factor  in  keeping  up  a  soldier's  spirit  than 
to  have  the  precious  knowledge  that  the  little  woman 
back  home  is  attending  to  the  business,  and  that  she 
has  brains  and  ability  enough  not  only  to  keep  her- 
self and  the  children  from  starving,  but  to  conserve 
the  financial  interests  of  the  family. 

But  there  is  more  than  this  in  the  support  given 
to  the  army  in  the  field  by  the  army  at  home.  The 
soldier  knows  that  his  wife  and  his  mother  are  proud 
of  the  fact  that  he  is  where  he  is.  They  do  not 
want  to  see  him  lay  down  his  arms  until  the  victory 
is  assured :  they  do  not  want  him  home  until  his  duty 

90 


THOSE  THEY  LEFT  BEHIND  THEM 

is  done.  It  is  only  in  cheap  fiction  that  one  hears 
of  the  lack  of  courage  of  the  French;  cheap  fiction 
written  by  Anglo-Saxons  and  Teutons  who  do  not 
know  that  the  Frenchwoman  has  an  intense,  physical 
loathing  for  any  exhibition  of  a  lack  of  courage,  and 
that  she  can  make  a  lion  out  of  her  man.  If  the 
British  are  granted  the  privilege  during  this  war  of 
fighting  side  by  side  with  the  French,  they  will  see 
with  their  own  eyes  what  will  correct  this  stupid  and 
erroneous  notion. 

September  eleventh. 

Here  is  the  story  of  a  woman  of  Paris  to  illus- 
trate what  I  wrote  a  month  ago. 

Last  Thursday,  in  one  of  the  suburbs  near  the 
firing-line,  a  young  wife  learned  that  her  husband's 
regiment  was  going  to  pass  through  a  neighboring 
suburb  in  the  retreat  towards  the  Marne.  She  took 
her  three-year-old  boy  to  a  place  where  the  regiment 
was  to  pass.  When  her  husband's  company  came 
by,  a  corporal  who  knew  her  saw  her  standing  on 
the  curb.  He  ran  out  of  the  line,  and  grabbed  her 
arm,  saying,  "Courage,  courage,  Madame;  your 
husband  fell  at  my  side  yesterday  at  Meaux."  The 
line  had  halted  for  a  moment,  owing  to  some  obstacle 
ahead,  so  soldiers  and  bystanders  heard  and  realized 
the  tragedy  that  was  being  enacted. 

The  young  woman  stood  for  a  second  with  closed 

91 


PARIS  REBORN 


eyes.  Then  she  lifted  her  boy  above  her  head,  and 
presented  him  to  the  regiment,  crying,  "Vive  la 
France!" 

If  Frenchmen  were  the  equals  of  their  women, 
the  world  would  soon  find  itself  under  the  su- 
premacy of  the  Gauls. 


X 

AUGUST    NIGHTS 

August  thirteenth. 

'"TV)  be  in  Paris  in  August  is  not  hard  luck,  al- 
A  though  many  people  think  it  is.  How  they 
pity  you  because  you  are  not  "in  the  country"  or 
"at  the  shore."  "Everybody,  you  know,  is  out  of 
town" ;  and,  "Everybody  you  know  is  out  of  town" ; 
so  they  say!  But  I  don't  know.  And  I  do  know 
many  people  who  never  leave  town  in  August,  year 
after  year.  As  a  general  rule,  they  are  much  more 
interesting  and  much  more  worth  while  than  the 
Exempt- from-Toil  who  flee  an  imaginary  "stifling 
atmosphere"  and  "awful  heat." 

Aside  from  those  who  have  small  children  or  are 
in  poor  health,  most  people  go  away  from  the  city 
in  the  summer  because  they  are  afraid  that  their 
friends  will  think  they  cannot  afford  to  go  away. 
C'est  le  chic,  as  the  French  put  it.  In  order  to  keep 
up  appearances  they  put  up  with  wretched  beds  and 
absence  of  bathtubs,  with  mosquitoes  and  gnats, 
with  one  mail  a  day  and  newspapers  two  days  old, 
with  poor  food  poorly  served,  and  die  of  ennui.  No 

93 


PARIS  REBORN 

city  person  honestly  enjoys  the  country  for  more 
than  two  weeks  on  end.  Why  not  be  frank  about 
it? 

There  is  a  pitiful  side  of  all  this  sacrifice  of  com- 
fort. In  the  first  place,  despite  the  tourists,  Paris  is 
never  more  delightful  than  in  August.  It  is  the 
most  glorious  month  of  the  year  in  the  most  glorious 
city  in  the  world.  If  I  have  any  misgivings  about 
this  statement,  it  is  only  because  I  have  said  August 
instead  of  July.  And  in  the  second  place,  there  are 
those  who  would  look  with  as  much  horror  on  spend- 
ing the  midwinter  in  Paris  as  you  do  on  spending 
the  midsummer  there,  and  for  exactly  the  same  rea- 
son. "Everybody,  you  know,  is  at  St.  Moritz,  or 
Cannes,  or  Nice,  or  Monte  Carlo,  or  Pau,  or  Biar- 
ritz" ;  and  "Everybody  you  know  has  gone  South  or 
to  Switzerland."  There  are  always  some  a  little 
higher  up  to  whom  you  are  nobody.  Social  climb- 
ing is  such  a  discouraging  business.  You  are  never 
at  the  top  unless  you  care  nothing  about  getting 
there.  Blessed  are  those  who  are  themselves! 

And  yet,  although  I  never  think  of  Paris  in  Au- 
gust in  any  other  way  than  as  the  perfectly  natural 
place  to  be,  there  is  some  hard  luck  in  being  here  this 
August.  It  is  not  because  of  the  war.  I  have  not 
yet  begun  to  think  or  write  of  the  war  to-night.  The 
usual  spell  of  August  Paris  nights  has  been  upon 
me,  and  it  has  made  me  long  for  the  usual  August 

94 


August  Nights.     In  the  Champs-Elys£es 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

companion  of  these  nights,  the  Research  Scholar. 

If  you  have  ever  gone  into  the  Salle  des  Manu- 
scrits  of  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  during  the  past 
decade  in  midsummer  between  the  hours  of  ten 
A.  M.  and  four  p.  M.,  you  have  seen  the  Research 
Scholar  there,  digging  out  of  musty  manuscripts  dis- 
coveries in  the  field  of  patristic  Latin  that  were 
some  months  later  to  electrify  the  world  of  scholar- 
ship, and  to  bring  further  fame  to  a  renowned  uni- 
versity in  which  the  Research  Scholar  holds  that 
venerable  chair  of  Humanity,  established  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  But  you  would  not  identify  the 
learned  university  professor  with  the  enthusiastic 
Scotchman,  loving  Paris  as  all  his  countrymen  have 
done  since  Quentin  Durward,  intelligent  admirer  of 
the  French  and  France,  to  whom  the  stones  of  Paris 
mean  more  than  did  those  of  Venice  to  Ruskin. 
After  four  p.  M.,  when  the  portfolios  with  their 
precious  papers  have  been  carefully  put  in  safety, 
the  Research  Scholar  and  I  go  out  for  our  walk, 
ending  generally  at  a  certain  table  on  the  street  in 
front  of  a  restaurant  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  where 
we  have  long  been  cachetiers* 

The  Research  Scholar  is  not  here  this  summer. 

1  This  word  may  not  be  in  your  French  dictionary.  But  you  know 
the  restaurants  where  you  are  enticed  into  paying  in  advance  by 
getting  eleven  meal  tickets  for  the  price  of  ten  meals.  These  tickets 
are  called  in  French  cachets.  The  cachetier  is  the  one  to  whom 
this  economy  has  appealed. 

97 


PARIS  REBORN 

Oh,  this  war!  There,  I  have  mentioned  it  for  the 
first  time.  You  may  think  you  can  get  away  from 
the  war,  but  you  cannot.  Every  thought,  even 
when  started  in  another  direction,  inevitably  comes 
back  to  it.  The  war  influences  every  action.  From 
morning  to  night,  you  have  it  in  Paris,  and  it  reaches 
your  subliminal  self,  if  there  is  such  a  thing.  The 
Research  Scholar  is  not  here.  Why?  The  war! 
Everything  is  like  this.  You  do  certain  things  be- 
cause of  the  war.  Other  things  you  do  not  do  be- 
cause of  the  war.  You  wish  for  something  that 
is  n't  here — its  absence  is  due  to  the  war.  You 
would  like  to  get  rid  of  something  that  is  here — you 
cannot  because  of  the  war.  You  want  to  laugh  at 
something:  you  want  to  play  the  piano;  you  do  wish 
there  was  a  show  going  somewhere  in  this  town :  the 
war.  None  of  these  things  would  be  seemly.  The 
burden  of  sorrow  weighs  down  upon  you;  you  are 
anxious  for  friends  who  have  gone ;  suffering  and  an- 
guish have  already  come  within  the  circle  of  those 
whom  you  know  intimately;  you  feel  depressed  and 
like  wearing  a  long  face.  But  you  must  be  cheerful, 
happy  even.  Why?  The  war;  and  what  is  the 
suffering  of  the  present  in  comparison  with  the  joy 
that  is  to  come  from  the  inevitable  victory?  If 
you  laugh,  you  are  unsympathetic:  if  you  cry,  you 
are  unpatriotic.  There  it  is  in  a  nutshell! 

I  must  give  up  cheerfully  the  companionship  of 

98 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

the  Research  Scholar  this  summer,  give  up  this  com- 
panionship as  my  little  sacrifice  for  France. 

Of  an  August  day  in  Paris  the  choice  hour  is 
from  six  to  seven  in  the  evening.  The  choice  prome- 
nade is  the  Seine  between  the  Pont  Alexandre  III 
and  the  Pont  de  1'Archeveche.  If  one  walks 
down  the  quays  of  the  Rive  Gauche  toward  Notre 
Dame  first,  and  then  turns  back  on  the  Rive  Droite, 
he  has  the  full  glory  of  the  setting  sun  before  him 
and  reaches  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  just  in  time  to 
get  a  glimpse  up  the  Champs  Elysees  toward  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  as  the  last  light  of  day  is  disap- 
pearing. I  am  not  yet  old  enough  to  have  taken 
this  walk  a  thousand  times,  but  when  I  have  I  am 
sure  that  it  will  present  the  same  fascination,  the 
same  stirring  of  soul,  the  same  exaltation  that  it 
does  to-day. 

Choose,  if  you  will,  your  August  sunset  at  the 
seashore  or  in  the  mountains.  There  you  have  na- 
ture unspoiled,  you  say.  But  is  there  not  a  revela- 
tion of  God  through  animate  as  well  as  inanimate 
creation1?  If  we  can  have  the  sun  going  down  on 
both  at  the  same  time,  why  not"?  Notre  Dame  may 
be  surpassed  by  other  churches,  even  in  France. 
But  Notre  Dame,  in  its  setting  on  the  island  that  is 
the  heart  and  center  of  this  city,  historically  and 
architecturally  the  high  water  mark  of  human  en- 
deavor, cannot  be  surpassed.  Standing  on  the 

99 


PARIS  REBORN 

bridge  between  the  Morgue  and  the  He  St.  Louis, 
and  looking  towards  the  setting  sun,  one  sees  the 
most  perfect  blending  of  the  creation  of  God  and  the 
creation  of  the  creatures  of  God  that  the  world  af- 
fords. And  it  is  not  because  I  have  not  seen  the 
sunset  from  the  Acropolis,  from  the  Janiculum, 
from  the  Golden  Horn,  and  from  the  steps  of  El 
Akbar,  that  I  make  this  statement.  Athens,  Rome, 
Constantinople,  Cairo — these  have  been,  but  Paris 
is. 

Paris  is !  I  feel  Paris  this  August  night.  I  feel 
it  more  than  ever  before,  because  to-night  is  differ- 
ent from  any  night  that  Paris  has  known  in  my  day. 
The  news  has  just  come  that  the  armies  are  in  con- 
tact on  French  soil.  The  Germans  intend  to  strike 
again — the  third  time  in  one  hundred  years — for  the 
city  whose  message  to  the  world  has  always  had — 
and  still  has — a  greater  influence,  a  more  universal 
acceptance,  than  the  doctrines  of  their  Kultur. 
Over  the  confidence  that  has  come  from  initial  vic- 
tories is  cast  the  shadow  of  this  menace.  Try  as 
they  will,  Parisians  cannot  forget  1870.  Is  there 
any  discredit  in  being  a  bit  sober  over  the  fact  that 
your  home  is  the  goal  of  the  most  redoubtable  army 
in  the  world? 

The  booksellers  have  closed  their  boxes  on  the 
parapets.  The  quays  are  almost  deserted.  Few 
vehicles,  and  fewer  pedestrians.  Fishermen  are  re- 

100 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

luctantly  doing  up  their  lines,  and  stretching  them- 
selves to  get  the  kinks  out  of  their  legs.  The  fish 
will  bite  no  more  because  it  is  growing  dark.  It  is 
true  that  the  fish  have  not  been  biting  all  the  after- 
noon, but  then  there  was  always  hope  as  long  as 
daylight  lasted.  If  you  want  a  striking  example  of 
faith,  take  the  man  who  throws  his  hook  into  the 
Seine.  Talk  about  your  Western  miner,  tramping 
for  a  decade  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  tapping 
for  gold  every  vein  of  quartz  he  sees!  Here  are 
white-haired  men  who  began  to  fish  in  the  Seine 
when  they  were  boys.  Kingdoms  and  republics  and 
empires  have  come  and  gone  in  Paris,  most  of  the 
familiar  landmarks  have  disappeared,  but  as  long 
as  the  river  is  still  there,  they  will  continue  to  fish. 
How  often  do  they  catch  anything"?  I  am  one  of 
the  most  faithful  frequenters  of  the  Paris  quays. 
I  have  yet  to  see  a  fish  pulled  out  of  the  Seine. 
There  is  one  shop  for  fishing-tackle  and  bait  which 
bears  the  sign,  "Maison  fondee  en  1728"  In  these 
exciting  days  of  mobilization,  it  is  not  closed. 

I  have  been  loitering.  The  sun  has  got  ahead  of 
me.  There  is  not  time  to  reach  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  Never  mind :  here  is  the  Pont  des  Saints 
Peres.  I  turn  in  under  the  deserted  arches  where 
generally  at  this  hour  one  has  to  prove  his  agility  if 
he  does  not  want  to  be  knocked  down  by  the  cease- 
less stream  of  taxi-autos,  and  stand  to  salute  the 

101 


PARIS  REBORN 

passing  day  under  the  Arc  du  Carrousel  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  Louvre.  The  sun  has  gone.  The  Arc 
de  Triomphe  stands  upon  its  hill,  outlined  against 
the  dark-red  afterglow.  The  quadruple  rows  of 
lamps  that  mark  the  ascending  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees  spring  into  light,  and  in  front  of  them  the 
electrical  extravagance  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
indicates  that  Paris  has  no  fear  yet  of  a  shortage  of 
coal. 

Just  as  I  turn  to  go,  I  see  something  that  Paris 
has  never  known  before.  Great  shafts  of  light 
shoot  forth  into  the  closing  darkness,  as  if  to  combat 
its  progress.  From  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  from  the 
Trocadero,  from  the  Champ  de  Mars  and  from 
Issy-les-Moulineaux,  sweeping  the  sky  in  every  di- 
rection, high  and  low,  all  are  moving,  sometimes 
crossing  each  other,  sometimes  forming  an  arch  sym- 
bolic of  their  purpose  over  the  Eiffel  Tower. 
These  searchlights  will  continue  their  sentinel  duty 
all  night  long  while  Paris  sleeps. 

And  now  it  is  dark.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it. 
I  am  shivering.  The  city  heat  of  August  nights  is 
generally  a  fallacy.  But  perhaps  it  is  a  shivering 
from  hunger  and  not  from  cold.  One  cannot  feed 
on  sunsets  and  searchlights.  As  I  cross  the  Pont 
des  Arts,  I  am  held  again  by  a  picket  of  searchlights 
in  the  other  direction.  They  must  be  down  by  the 
Entrepot  de  Bercy  and  Ivry,  pretty  far  away,  and 

102 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

yet,  when  they  point  in  my  direction,  I  feel  that 
Notre  Dame,  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  and  even  the 
Louvre  here  beside  me,  are  being  protected  from  a 
night  attack  of  the  enemy's  airmen.  The  eye  of  the 
Skibereen  Eagle  1  was  never  fixed  more  unwaver- 
ingly upon  Napoleon  than  are  these  vigilant  eyes 
of  Paris  upon  the  aircraft  of  his  twentieth-century 
emulator. 

As  I  pass  through  the  Rue  de  Seine,  I  find  that 
there  are  other  eyes  than  those  that  I  have  described, 
watching  for  the  enemy.  Several  groups  I  meet, 
each  with  heads  upturned  and  index  fingers  pointed 
heavenward.  If  one  did  not  know  these  people, 
and  did  not  understand  what  they  are  saying,  he 
would  think  that  they  are  quarreling.  How  often 
the  most  simple  remark  in  a  foreign — especially 
Latin — tongue  seems  to  the  uninitiated  like  words 
spoken  in  anger!  Two  men,  who  are  merely  po- 
litely inquiring  of  each  other  concerning  the  health 
of  their  respective  mothers-in-law  (more  important 
and  more  vital  a  question  in  France  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  world)  you  expect  to  see  falling  to  and 
striking  each  other. 

1 1  don't  know  exactly  where  in  Ireland  the  town  of  Skibereen  is, 
or  whether  the  Eagle  is  still  published  there.  The  Eagle's  editor 
was  a  man  of  parts  a  hundred  years  ago.  After  the  battle  of 
Agram  he  wrote:  "News  has  come  that  the  Corsican  Usurper  has 
entered  Vienna.  He  may  be  having  his  triumphs  now,  but  let  him 
beware,  and  remember  that  the  eye  of  the  Skibereen  Eagle  is  al- 
ways upon  him!" 

103 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  groups  I  join  are  not  fighting.  They  think 
they  have  discovered  Zeppelins. 

I  am  not  drawing  on  my  imagination.  I  am  try- 
ing honestly  to  write  a  record  of  sober  fact.  Cer- 
tain stars,  which  are  probably  harmless  planets  to 
those  who  know  the  topography  of  the  heavens,  are 
playing  a  thrilling  role  for  Paris  these  August 
nights.  They  are  lights  of  Zeppelins.  The  burn- 
ing question  is,  to  the  Parisians,  not  whether  there 
is  a  Zeppelin  up  there,  but  which  star  is  the  Zep- 
pelin. As  some  stars  twinkle  and  others  don't — 
for  reasons  which  I  would  be  the  last  in  the  world 
to  try  to  explain — the  twinklers,  by  the  very  fact 
that  they  move,  are  suspicious  characters.  But 
there  are  many  twinklers,  and  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  when  you  look  along  the  line  of  vision  of  an 
index  finger  towards  some  distant  object  you  do  not 
always  see  what  your  informant  intends  that  you 
should  see.  He  grows  impatient  at  your  stupidity: 
you  grow  impatient  at  the  inaccuracy  of  his  point- 
ing. So  there  is  much  to  discuss — and  some  cause 
for  disagreement — in  the  Zeppelin-hunting  groups 
which  I  meet  on  my  way  towards  dinner. 

From  the  tone  of  the  comments,  I  gather  that  no 
one  is  afraid  of  Zeppelins.  They  are  merely  in- 
terested and  curious,  and  not  lacking  in  pride  that 
our  city  is  the  first  in  the  world  to  be  the  object  of 
attack  by  these  reputed  masters  of  the  air. 

104 


The  Seine  at  Notre  Dame 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

As  I  cross  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  I  realize 
how  late  it  is.  So  silent  is  the  night,  that  I  can  hear 
the  mournful  chimes  of  the  Catholic  University  way 
off  on  the  Rue  Vaugirard:  "Ting-tong,  ting-tong, 
ting-tong,  ting-tong!"  Four  quarter-hours.  Then 
the  deeper  strokes  of  the  hour,  eight  of  them. 
Saint  Germain-des-Pres  and  Saint-Sulpice  follow 
suit.  And  hark.  Can  it  be1?  Yes,  Saint-Ger- 
main-1'Auxerrois,  across  the  river.  Who  could  be- 
lieve that  from  this  spot  by  the  statue  of  Danton 
one  could  hear  so  far?  But  there  is  no  competition 
of  tramways,  of  wheels  and  hoofs  on  asphalt,  of 
auto- taxis'  "honk-honk"  this  evening. 

Eight  o'clock.  Waiters  are  carrying  in  the  tables 
and  chairs  from  the  terraces  of  cafes,  and  putting  up 
shutters.  I  hurry  through  the  Rue  de  1'Ecole  de 
Medecine.  The  electric  sign  in  front  of  Pascal's  is 
extinguished.  No  music  and  laughter  come  floating 
out  from  the  interior  to  tempt  you.  Now  I  am  in 
the  "Boul  Mich,"  I  have  to  pinch  myself  to  realize 
that  I  am  I,  that  this  the  "Boul  Mich,"  and  that 
it  is  only  eight  o'clock.  Every  cafe  is  shut  up  tight 
from  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  to  the  Rue  Soufflot. 
Searchlights  are  not  the  only  novelty  of  August 
nights.  Something  that  you  have  never  seen  before 
does  not  necessarily  impress  you.  You  may  even 
be  like  the  Kansas  farmer  who,  when  he  first  went 
to  the  circus,  looked  at  the  camel,  shook  his  head 

107 


PARIS  REBORN 

positively,  and  remarked,  "There  ain't  no  such  ani- 
mal." 

But  what  cannot  fail  to  stir  you  to  the  depths 
is  the  absence  of  something,  which,  in  your  mind, 
has  been  indissolubly  linked  with  a  certain  fa- 
miliar spot.  Sailing  into  New  York  and  meeting  a 
sky  line  without  sky  scrapers,  hitting  London  on  a 
cloudless  night  and  finding  a  city  of  glaring  white 
marble  buildings — these  sensations  could  not  be 
weirder  than  turning  into  the  "Boul  Mich"  on  an 
August  evening  at  eight  o'clock  and  seeing  a  dark 
and  empty  street.  No  tables  and  chairs  with  cof- 
fee-consuming groups  on  the  sidewalks,  no  lights,  no 
noise. 

I  have  been  boasting  that  Paris  is  normal.  So  it 
is  in  spirit,  but  not  in  spirits.  Drastic  all  day  long 
is  the  decree  forbidding  the  sale  of  absinthe  and  kin- 
dred drinks.  But  even  the  Parisians  addicted  to 
the  habit  of  the  spoon  and  lump  of  sugar  and  of 
watching  green  change  to  cloudy  white,  are  not  com- 
plaining. They  acknowledge  the  curse,  and  accept 
the  remedy.  There  is  remorse  when  they  think  of 
Germany's  sixty-five  millions.  There  is  humilia- 
tion when  they  read  that  the  German  reservists  are 
marching  fifty  kilometers  a  day  without  fatigue. 
And  I  have  seen  the  bitter  tears  of  Normans  and 
Bretons  when  they  were  told  that  the  Etat-Major 
feared  to  put  in  the  first  line  for  the  invasion  of 

108 


AUGUST  NIGHTS 

Alsace  reservists  from  their  alcohol-saturated  prov- 
inces. Not  worthy  to  die  for  France! 

The  eight  o'clock  closing  law  is  difficult.  That 
hits  everybody,  and  it  hits  us  with  a  force  that  it  is 
difficult  for  outsiders  to  understand.  The  Parisian 
is  a  child  of  the  open  air,  and  he  stays  in  the  house 
only  when  he  has  to.  He  goes  to  bed  as  a  last  resort. 
To  sweep  away  the  terraces  of  the  cafes  is  against 
nature :  it  is  cruel. 

After  all,  one  can  be  thankful  that  the  restaurants 
are  allowed  to  serve  meals  indoors  until  half  past 
nine. 

I  go  into  Boulant's.  The  Lawyer  has  tipped  a 
chair  for  me.  He  has  finished  his  soup,  and  is 
wrinkling  his  brow  over  the  question  of  entree.  He 
is  glad  to  see  me,  for  choosing  from  the  card  is  one 
subject  concerning  which  he  occasionally  seeks  ad- 
vice. 

We  eat  our  meal  with  an  eye  on  the  clock  to  leave 
time  for  a  smoke  before  they  put  out  the  lights  on 
us.  We  discuss  the  news  in  the  Temps.  Then  we 
go  home,  and  go  to  bed.  There  is  nothing  else  to 
do. 


109 


XI 

ANONYMITY    AND    INDEMNITY 

August  sixteenth. 

"TT  7ONDERFUL,  almost  unbelievable  it  is, 
VY  this  newly  announced  policy  of  anonymity 
in  our  military  operations.  I  never  thought  that  I 
would  live  to  see  a  day  like  this.  I  can  hardly  yet 
believe  it  possible,  although  I  want  to.  Oh,  I  want 
to,  so  much!" 

The  Jesuit  Father's  face  interpreted  the  desire, 
the  longing  in  his  words.  A  more  attractive  man 
with  nobler  soul  God  never  made.  Drawn  to  him*? 
Of  course  I  am !  Everybody  whose  path  he  crosses 
is  drawn  to  him.  I  can  see  that  the  Greek  Student, 
who  is  sitting  with  us  in  the  garden  under  the  fig 
tree  outside  my  studio  door,  is  under  the  spell  of  the 
Jesuit  Father,  as  am  I  on  those  red  letter  days  when 
he  comes  to  see  me.  The  Melachrino  cigarette  that 
I  have  given  to  the  Greek  Student,  and  that  he  is 
smoking  indifferently,  is  not  the  treat  it  would  be 
under  ordinary  circumstances.  For  the  Greek  Stu- 
dent is  thinking  of  the  Jesuit  Father  rather  than  of 
his  cigarette. 

no 


ANONYMITY  AND  INDEMNITY 

I  have  met  them  everywhere,  the  Jesuit  Fathers, 
in  America,  in  Europe,  in  Asia,  and  in  Africa.  I 
have  seen  them  in  the  drawing-room  and  in  the 
desert,  in  plenty  and  in  want,  in  splendor  and  in 
squalor,  in  security  and  in  danger,  and  I  have  always 
found  them  the  same,  men  of  God,  gentlemen  and 
scholars,  in  the  widest  and  deepest  connotation  of 
these  terms.  And  when  I  say  that  this  particular 
Jesuit  father  stands  out  from  among  others  of  his 
Order,  do  you  wonder  that  I  find  it  a  rare  privilege 
to  sit  with  him  under  the  fig  tree,  and  that  the  Greek 
Student  is  looking  at  the  Father  rather  than  at  his 
cigarette*? 

"You  see,"  continued  the  Jesuit  Father,  "it  has 
always  been  the  misfortune  of  our  national  life,  that 
we  have  been  influenced  and  led  by  personalities 
rather  than  by  principles.  Our  politics  are  that 
way.  Practically  everything  that  finds  expression 
in  association  with  our  life  is  that  way.  History 
has  certainly  shown  us  in  our  wars  that  way.  It  has 
always  been  a  question  with  us  of  who  the  leaders 
were.  Principles  have  been  glorified  by  those  who 
championed  them,  instead  of  glorifying  their  cham- 
pions. Perhaps  it  is  the  inevitable  revolt  from  the 
sinking  of  self  in  our  family  relations  that  has 
caused  us  to  become  extremely  individualistic  out- 
side of  the  family  circle. 

"So,  when  I  read  that  it  is  the  intention  of  the 
111 


PARIS  REBORN 

Government  and  General  Staff,  with  the  cooperation 
of  the  newspapers,  to  make  this  a  war  of  anonymity 
in  regard  to  persons  as  well  as  to  places,  I,  like  every 
other  Frenchman,  exclaim,  'Tiens!  pourvu  que  ga 
arrive!' 

"Of  course,  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  disaster 
in  1870  which  a  policy  of  anonymity  at  that  time 
would  have  retrieved,  if  not  prevented.  May  it 
now  succeed,  imposed  upon  us  as  an  imperative 
measure  of  national  safety.  Then  let  us  hope  that 
we  shall  no  longer  have  political  parties  in  France 
named  after  certain  leaders,  and  that  we  shall  be 
able,  when  we  judge  a  policy,  to  be  influenced  by 
the  principles  embodied  in  the  policy  rather  than  by 
the  personality  of  the  one  who  advocates  it!" 

The  war  has  been  on  two  weeks  now,  and  we  sup- 
pose that  battles  have  been  fought.  In  fact,  the 
communiques  tell  us  that  battles  have  been  fought. 
But  they  do  not  say  just  where;  the  names  of  the 
commanding  officers  are  not  mentioned;  nor  do  we 
know  what  troops  took  part  in  these  battles.  The 
place  is  generally  "X."  The  Commanding-Gen- 
eral is  "X."  The  army  corps  is  "X."  If  a  certain 
regiment  has  distinguished  itself,  it  is  the  "X"  regi- 
ment of  the  "X"  division :  and  the  officer,  whose  con- 
spicuous bravery  in  leading  a  forlorn  hope  turned 
the  tide  of  the  day,  is  Colonel  "X." 

There  is  something  grim  in  this  policy  of  ano- 

112 


ANONYMITY  AND  INDEMNITY 

nymity.  But  it  is  glorious  that  battles  are  not  being 
fought  to  bring  prestige  to  a  general.  In  this  war 
the  commanding  general  and  common  soldier  are  on 
the  same  footing.  They  are  righting  for  France, 
and  the  glory  is  for  France  alone. 

The  Greek  Student,  who  comes  from  the  land 
whose  past  has  influenced  France,  and  whose  pres- 
ent is  influenced  by  France,  to  the  extent  that  the 
political  life  of  both  nations  exhibits  those  glaring 
weaknesses  revealed  by  Hellenic  writers  through 
centuries  from  Homer  to  Aristophanes,  spoke  up  in 
loud  praise  of  anonymity  as  the  absolutely  neces- 
sary measure  in  a  modern  war.  His  opinion  is 
worth  listening  to.  For  he  has  been  through  two 
wars  on  the  staff  of  Crown  Prince  (later  King) 
Constantine.  He  acted  as  interpreter  for  the  Greek 
army  in  the  surrender  of  Janina,  and  later  was  one 
of  the  first  of  the  "liberating"  army  to  set  foot  in 
Kavala,  when  the  Bulgarians  fled. 

We  may  be  able  to  argue  that  the  policy  of  ano- 
nymity would  have  been  impossible  in  the  days  of 
Napoleon  or  of  Garibaldi,  for  it  is  indisputable  that 
these  two  names  and  those  of  their  lieutenants  had 
more  to  do  with  victory  than  either  the  cause,  im- 
personally considered,  for  which  they  were  fighting, 
or  the  strategy  that  was  employed.  But  what 
would  have  been  inadvisable  then  imposes  itself 
now.  Our  newspapers,  our  postal  service,  our 


PARIS  REBORN 

trains,  our  automobiles,  and,  above  all,  our  tele- 
graphy, both  wireless  and  otherwise,  make  spying  a 
tremendous  factor  in  the  conduct  of  a  campaign. 
And,  with  our  enormous  centers  of  population,  such 
as  Paris,  how  is  it  possible  to  avoid  the  immediate 
communication  of  every  bit  of  information  about 
movements  of  troops  to  the  enemy  ? 

From  anonymity,  the  conversation  drifted  to  in- 
demnity. 

The  resistance  of  the  Belgians  and  the  prompt  en- 
try of  the  British  army  into  France  have  made  the 
Parisians  so  confident  of  victory  that  they  are  al- 
ready talking  about  the  bear's  skin. 

The  Jesuit  Father  has  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  has  the  caution  of  wide  experience  as  well  as  of 
white  hair.  Although  he  is  the  embodiment  of  pa- 
triotism and  enthusiasm,  he  has  learned  to  face  issues 
squarely.  So  he  does  not  say,  as  do  most  of  us  these 
days,  "When  we  win,"  but,  "//  we  win."  Nor  does 
he  consider  himself  any  the  less  of  a  patriot  because 
he  expresses  himself  in  this  way.  So  his  opinion 
on  the  question  of  indemnity  means  more  to  me 
than  those  I  read  in  the  newspapers. 

"By  every  leading  of  common  sense,"  he  declared, 
"it  seems  absurd  to  be  talking  about  the  question 
of  indemnity  before  the  war  has  begun  in  earnest. 
I  have  studied  in  Germany.  I  have  traveled  in 
Germany,  and  I  know  something  of  German  activi- 

114 


ANONYMITY  AND  INDEMNITY 

ties  in  France,  as  well  as  in  other  parts  of  the  world. 
With  God's  help,  we  shall  keep  the  Germans  out 
of  our  country,  or,  if  we  have  to  suffer  another  in- 
vasion, we  shall  in  the  end  drive  them  out.  We 
may  be  able  in  time  to  liberate  Belgium,  and  to 
expel  the  Germans  from  our  dear  provinces  be- 
yond the  Vosges.  Seeing  that  we  have  strong  allies, 
it  is  not  unreasonable  to  dream  of  crossing  the 
Rhine. 

"So  we  are  not  altogether  guilty  of  counting  our 
chickens  before  they  are  hatched.  If,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  gigantic  struggle,  we  speculate  upon 
what  we  shall  receive  for  the  sacrifices  we  must 
make  and  the  hardships  we  must  endure  in  this  war 
that  is  not  of  our  choosing,  is  it  not  natural*?" 

The  Jesuit  Father  was  leaning  heavily  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  his  head  was  bowed  until  the 
beard  touched  his  breast.  Some  great  emotion 
seemed  to  overpower  him  for  the  moment.  He 
could  not  speak,  or  did  not  want  to.  One  hand 
clutched  his  knee.  The  other  rested  upon  his  thigh. 
The  Greek  student  and  I  waited  in  silence. 

Across  the  garden  wall  from  the  street  the  cries 
of  half  a  dozen  camelots  had  risen  above  the  clank- 
ing rumble  of  the  double  tramway  coming  up  the 
hill  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  I  slipped  out 
quietly  and  bought  a  paper.  In  Upper  Alsace, 
Thann  has  been  retaken.  Two  French  aviators 


PARIS  REBORN 

have  flown  over  Metz,  and  bombarded  the  Zeppelin 
sheds.  The  great  battle  in  Belgium  and  Alsace 
from  Basel  to  Maestricht  has  begun.  Things  look 
promising. 

When  I  had  read  the  communique^  the  Jesuit 
Father  was  ready  to  speak  again. 

"First  of  all,  we  must  have  back  our  Lost  Prov- 
inces, Alsace  and  Lorraine.  That  comes  before  any 
question  of  money.  During  forty-four  years  we 
have  waited,  and  over  there  our  compatriots  have 
waited  for  us.  If  by  the  treaty  of  peace  we  get  a 
money  indemnity,  we  must  remember  that  there  is  a 
limit,  just  as  Thiers  said  to  Bismarck,  to  what  can 
be  extracted  from  a  defeated  nation.  And  there 
are  others  besides  ourselves  to  share  in  the  indemnity 
from  Germany.  If  we  get  back  our  five  billions, 
with  interest,  we  shall  be  lucky.  We  can  hardly 
hope  for  more  than  that,  even  if  Germany  is  crushed. 

"But  this  would  give  us  back  only  what  we  lost 
in  1870.  Can  we  hope  for  more — for  some  positive 
advantage  from  our  victory*?  Yes,  I  think  we  can. 
France  does  not  need  money.  We  have  always  had 
plenty.  We  have  plenty  now.  What  we  need  is 
freedom  from  the  horrible  nightmare  that  has  been 
hanging  over  us  since  I  was  a  boy.  I  have  lived  all 
my  life  under  the  shadow  of  the  menace  of  another 
1870.  Do  you  wonder  that  Frenchmen  feel  bitter 
against  Germany?  Think  of  these  forty-four  years. 

116 


ANONYMITY  AND  INDEMNITY 

Why,  it  is  the  whole  lifetime  of  the  great  majority 
of  Frenchmen  living  to-day.  Our  elders  went  down 
to  the  grave  under  this  burden.  We  have  never 
been  free  from  it.  Next  to  Alsace  and  Lorraine, 
it  is  not  indemnity  that  we  look  for,  but  guarantees 
against  a  revival  of  Prussian  militarism. 

"I  feel  sure  that,  if  the  French  armies  ever  get 
across  the  Rhine,  it  will  not  be  Berlin  but  Essen 
that  they  will  have  for  their  goal.  We  want  to  de- 
stroy from  chimney  top  to  cellar  foundation  every 
building  of  the  Krupp  factories.  Our  greatest  joy 
would  be  to  plow  up  this  cannon-producing  ground, 
and  sow  it  with  wheat.  Would  the  world  dare  to 
call  this  vandalism  or  a  manifestation  of  industrial 
jealousy*?  The  dream  of  France  is  to  deprive  Ger- 
many of  the  possibility  of  becoming  again,  at  least 
in  the  lifetime  of  the  generations  who  are  carrying 
the  burdens  of  this  war,  a  menace  to  our  national 
safety." 

These  are  the  words  of  one  of  the  most  peaceable 
and  saintly  of  Frenchmen. 

The  Greek  student  said  nothing.  Nor  did  I. 
Hope  like  this,  in  the  midst  of  conflict,  is  too  sacred 
for  speculations  or  for  analysis. 


117 


XII 

FALSE    HOPES 

August  nineteenth. 

THIS  is  not  my  title  for  to-day's  letter.  It  was 
given  to  me  by  a  whole-hearted  Frenchwoman 
who  believes  that  the  interests  of  France,  and  espe- 
cially of  Paris,  are  best  conserved  by  a  frank  know- 
ledge of  what  the  country  must  face. 

It  is  a  painful  commentary  upon  the  frailty  of  hu- 
man relationships  that  we  all  of  us  grow  so  far  away 
from  things  and  places  and  people  that  have  in  the 
past  formed  a  large  part  of  our  life.  Our  friends  of 
yesterday !  Not  all  the  graves  are  in  the  cemetery. 
Often  if  we  have  buried  others  and  others  have 
buried  us — intentionally  I  use  the  strongest  figura- 
tive expression — it  is  through  no  tangible  cause  on 
either  side.  How  many  times  I  have  asked  myself 
why  I  have  drifted  away  from  certain  moorings  and 
beyond  the  sound  of  certain  voices,  still  respected 
and  sometimes  still  loved.  I  find  no  answer.  It  is 
one  of  the  puzzles  that,  if  one  were  more  introspec- 
tive, would  darken  the  path  of  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  associations  from 
118 


FALSE  HOPES 

which  one  never  frees  himself;  associations,  I  mean, 
not  necessarily  within  the  circle  of  intimate  friend- 
ship, of  congenial  tastes,  or  of  common  interests. 
Why  these  are  kept  up,  one  can  no  more  satisfac- 
torily explain  to  himself  than  he  can  explain  why 
others  are  not. 

Madame  of  the  Pension  (to  several  score  of 
friends  Madame's  is  always  THE  Pension,  as  if  there 
were  no  other  in  Paris)  is  one  of  the  people  whom  I 
go  to  see  every  so  often.  I  just  go.  I  like  her  im- 
mensely, and  I  have  the  habit.  The  Girl  and  I, 
pension-hunting,  went  into  her  little  office  off  the 
dark  hallway,  altogether  by  chance,  many  years  ago, 
carrying  a  five  weeks'  old  baby — our  first — and  re- 
ceived the  answer,  "Of  course  I  love  babies:  the 
darlings,"  to  our  rather  faltering  and  fearful  ques- 
tion. Our  search  was  at  an  end.  There  has  never 
been  any  other  pension  in  Paris  for  us  since  then. 
Madame  (she  was  Mademoiselle  then)  has  been  re- 
warded by  an  excellent  husband  and  two  children  of 
her  own,  and — I  hope  that  I  am  not  flattering  my- 
self by  calling  it  a  reward,  for  my  "our"  includes  the 
Girl — our  friendship  that  has  grown  with  the  years. 

If  you  have  not  lost  the  thread  in  this  wandering, 
you  may  guess  that  Madame  of  the  pension  is  the 
whole-hearted  Frenchwoman  of  whom  I  spoke  above. 

I  went  to  the  pension  for  dinner  this  evening. 
Madame  received  me  with  her  usual  effusion  in  the 

119 


PARIS  REBORN 

little  bureau.  She  was  cheerful,  full  of  life  and 
conversation,  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  me,  ready  to 
ask  about  my  wife  and  each  of  my  children,  and — 
what  is  more  important — to  listen  to  my  replies.  I 
must  tell  all  the  news  of  the  family,  before  I  have 
the  chance  to  ask  in  turn  about  her  husband  and  the 
fortunes  of  the  pension. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  was  called  on  the  thirteenth  day 
of  the  mobilization.  He  went  to  Alengon.  No,  I 
have  had  no  word  from  him.  He  was  glad  to  go, 
and  I  am  happy  that  I  had  a  husband  to  send.  The 
pension?  There  were  a  lot  of  Americans,  but  they 
have  all  gone."  Then  followed  the  news  of  the 
habitues,  whom  I  have  known  for  years.  All  were 
gone :  the  women  to  their  homes  in  the  provinces,  and 
the  men  to  the  war.  Most  anxiously  I  asked  for 
the  Law  Student,  who,  six  years  ago,  used  to  sit  at 
our  table  and  tell  us  about  his  thesis  for  the  doc- 
torate. Later,  he  was  a  dinner  guest  in  our  several 
different  apartments,  and,  while  we  usually  had  an- 
other baby  to  show  him,  he  was  still  on  that  thesis. 
Only  two  months  ago  I  found  him  here  at  the  same 
table,  and  he  gave  me  the  latest  news  of  the  thesis 
— it  had  not  yet  been  finished.  Poor  boy,  he  was 
called  on  the  second  day,  so  Madame  tells  me,  and 
said  good-bye  with  the  presentiment  that  he  would 
never  return.  But  he  had  not  forgotten  to  leave  a 
message  for  the  Girl  and  me.  It  was  there  in  one 

120 


FALSE  HOPES 

of  the  pigeon-holes  over  Madame's  desk.  Will  he 
come  back  to  finish  the  thesis'?  Or  will  he,  too,  be 
among  the  sacrificed  for  no  purpose  in  this  horrible 
holocaust  of  human  lives  ? 

We  went  into  the  salle  a  manger.  What  a  con- 
trast these  few  weeks  have  made !  Fifty  chairs  are 
standing  on  top  of  empty  tables ;  only  two  lights  are 
burning;  lacking  are  the  animation,  laughter,  shrill 
voices  and  gruff  voices,  in  several  languages,  pro- 
vincial and  American-French  dominating.  Louis, 
who  could  balance  a  dish  on  each  finger  of  each  hand, 
and  serve  half  a  hundred  people  twice  a  day  without 
affording  any  one  the  opportunity  to  grumble  over 
delay  or  cold  food ;  Louis,  most  skilful  of  prestidigi- 
tateurs  and  waiters  (the  terms  are  generally  syn- 
onymous) is  fighting  the  Germans  to-night  instead  of 
the  cook.  Two  tall  and  gloomy  American  women 
of  uncertain  age,  who  look  as  if  they  held  travelers' 
checks  in  the  Hamburg-America  line,  are  the  only 
guests.  Wonder  of  wonders,  I  am  a  clairvoyant. 
For  that  is  the  reason  they  are  still  here,  Madame 
says.  Only  the  checks  are  on  the  North  German 
Lloyd,  which  is  as  hopeless  these  days. 

We  sit  down  at  Madame's  table.  Madame's  sis- 
ter, whose  husband  is  at  the  war;  her  sister-in-law, 
whose  husband  is  at  the  war;  Madame,  whose  hus- 
band is  at  the  war;  and  myself.  Because  Louis  is 
at  the  war,  the  women  jump  up  and  down,  serving 

121 


PARIS  REBORN 


. 


courses  in  turn.  But  is  there  any  less  of  a  meal 
than  usual*?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  And  are  the  hus- 
bandless  Frenchwomen  gloomy,  like  the  two  money- 
less American  women  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Good 
sports,  all  of  them.  We  toast  the  absent  loved  ones 
in  a  dusty  bottle  of  Beaune,  and  have  Three-Star 
brandy  for  our  coffee. 

It  is  with  no  somber  face  that  Madame  calls  the 
newspaper  stories  false  hopes,  and  it  is  without  losing 
their  smile  that  the  others  agree  with  her. 

Things  are  not  going  well.  These  women  you 
cannot  fool.  The  Battle  of  Altkirch  and  the  tri- 
umphal entry' into  Mulhouse  were  the  temporary  suc- 
cesses of  an  abortive  raid.  The  French-British  for- 
ward march  into  Belgium  is  not,  in  their  opinion,  a 
forward  march  at  all.  For  what  happened  at  Char- 
leroi? 

As  Madame's  personality  dominates  the  group,  she 
is  spokeswoman  for  them. 

"We  shall  win.  We  shall  win !"  she  cries.  Her 
black  eyes  shine  like  her  hair.  "But  many  a  sad 
day  is  coming  for  France  before  the  victory  is  ours. 
The  Germans  are  powerful.  We  know  that.  They 
have  been  checked  at  Lie"ge,  and  we  are  told  that 
Namur  is  still  holding  out.  But  it  is  an  irresistible 
tide.  For  we  are  not  yet  prepared.  The  mobiliza- 
tion is  just  being  completed.  Defensive,  and  not 
offensive,  warfare  must  be  our  role  for  the  present. 

122 


FALSE  HOPES 

We  have  to  give  the  Russians  time,  and  we  have  to 
give  the  British  time.  While  we  are  waiting  for 
them,  it  is  France  that  will  suffer.  We  women  of 
France  are  the  ones  who  are  making  the  sacrifice. 
We  are  willing  to  make  it.  What  is  more,  we  know 
that  we  have  to  make  it." 

The  sentences  come  out,  one  after  the  other,  crisp 
and  clear,  and  almost  tumbling  over  each  other.  I 
never  knew  any  one  to  talk  as  fast  as  Madame.  Her 
keen  mind  frequently  works  faster  than  the  mobile 
lips.  She  is  the  despair  of  her  American  clients  who 
are  "learning  French." 

In  her  excitement,  Madame  filled  up  my  empty 
cup  with  a  dose  of  brandy  that  would  have  knocked 
down  a  horse,  and  accentuated  her  words  with  the 
hilt  of  the  bread-knife  on  the  table.  The  sister  and 
sister-in-law  got  in  an  occasional  parfaitement^  bien 
sur,  and  tres  bien.  Before  I  could  intersperse  even  a 
oui,  she  would  start  on  the  next  sentence  like  an  Epis- 
copal parson  reading  the  Psalter. 

"It  does  not  make  our  burden  easier  but  rather 
harder,  to  be  cradled  with  illusions,  from  which  the 
awakening  will  be  rude.  I  think  the  glory  of  our 
sacrifice  is  in  our  readiness  to  make  it.  This  readi- 
ness has  been  tested.  Our  loved  ones  have  gone. 
Who  dares  to  say  that  the  women  of  France  need  the 
exaltation  of  false  hopes  to  sustain  them1?  We  are 
worthy — we  have  proved  our  worthiness — to  know 

123 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  truth.     Knowing  the  truth  will  help  us  better  to 
bear  our  burden." 

As  I  went  home  I  bought  a  late  evening  paper. 
Across  the  top  there  was  a  huge  headline : 

LES  RUSSES  A  CINQ  ETAPES  DE  BERLIN 

The  Russians,  according  to  the  St.  Petersburg  cor- 
respondents, are  only  five  days  away  from  Berlin, 
and  there  has  been  a  huge  reward  offered  for  the  first 
soldier  who  enters  the  German  capital.  But  there  is 
no  word  from  Alsace  or  from  Belgium.  Our  salva- 
tion is  in  the  Russians,  then*? 

What  folly  has  come  over  our  censors  and  our 
journalists'?  If  it  is  to  reassure  the  women  that  they 
commit  these  betises  and  insult  in  this  way  the  in- 
telligence and  patriotism  of  their  readers,  they  show 
a  sad  insight  into  feminine  psychology.  Few  women 
are  courageous  in  anticipation.  They  shrink  from  a 
future  evil.  But  most  women  are  heroines  in  reali- 
zation. When  the  blow  falls,  they  have  more  than 
manly  strength.  There  is  something  of  God  in 
them. 

So  let  us  know  what  happens  when  it  happens. 
The  women  will  take  it  all  right. 


124 


VIII 

THE    FOREIGN    VOLUNTEERS 

August  twenty-second. 

THE  other  day  I  was  lunching  with  the  Lawyer 
and  the  American-Journalist-Who-Loves- 
France  at  the  home  of  the  Modiste.  To  sit  at  the 
Modiste's  board  and  have  before  you  any  dish  at  all 
that  she  has  prepared,  is  a  treat,  but  on  the  day  of 
goose  stewed  with  turnips — words  convey  no  mean- 
ing here.  You  have  to  taste  to  understand. 

Conversation  turned  to  the  foreign  volunteers,  of 
whose  noisy  demonstrations  on  the  first  evening  of 
the  mobilization  I  have  written.  That  first  enthusi- 
asm has  been  checked — or  seemed  to  be  so — by  the 
declaration  of  the  Minister  of  War  that  no  volun- 
teers, French  or  foreign,  would  be  enrolled  until 
after  the  mobilization  was  completed.  This  was  ig- 
noring the  axiom  of  striking  while  the  iron  is  hot. 
Then  it  was  announced  that  the  only  way  open  to 
serve  would  be  to  enlist  in  the  Foreign  Legion  for 
the  length  of  the  war.  Were  privately  organized 
bands  of  volunteers  not  to  be  accepted  in  the  army 
as  separate  companies'?  Were  there  to  be  no  regi- 

125 


PARIS  REBORN 

ments,  no  companies,  with  distinctive  uniform,  serv- 
ing as  units  distinct  from  those  of  other  nations'? 

The  Lawyer  and  I  were  of  the  opinion  that  volun- 
teering would  suffer  from  this  cold  water  which  had 
been  thrown  upon  it,  and  that  when  the  22nd  ar- 
rived (the  day  after  general  mobilization  termi- 
nated) there  would  be  fewer  volunteers  than  fol- 
lowed the  flags  bearing  inscriptions  of  love  for  France 
on  that  memorable  first  Sunday  evening  of  August. 

The  Modiste,  being  a  woman,  could  not  under- 
stand that  we  were  discussing  an  academic  question, 
and  were  not  expressing  how  we  should  feel,  were 
we  ourselves  contemplating  the  act  of  volunteering. 

"General  Messimy  is  right!"  she  cried.  "What 
France  needs  is  volunteers  who  go  into  the  war  just 
as  Frenchmen  go  into  it,  with  the  complete  sinking 
of  self  into  the  whole.  If  we  are  to  win  this  war, 
God  forbid  that  we  should  fall  into  the  German  idea 
of  organization,  and  make  our  army  a  machine.  We 
want  to  preserve  our  individualism,  but  we  must  at 
the  same  time  show  our  solidarity.  We  cannot  ac- 
cept volunteers  in  separate  organizations  of  their 
different  nationalities.  If  they  come  to  us,  it  is  as 
individuals,  who  enlist  because  they  love  France  and 
are  willing  to  die  for  France.  How  is  it  that  you 
do  not  understand1?" 

The  Journalist  had  been  silent.  His  eyes  were 
wandering  up  toward  the  ceiling,  and  he  seemed  to  be 

126 


THE  FOREIGN  VOLUNTEERS 

counting  on  the  shelves  the  rows  of  pasteboard  boxes 
that  would  not  be  used  for  hats  this  season.  The 
Modiste's  dining-room,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, is  a  busy  workshop  for  catering  to  the  fash- 
ionables of  Paris.  It  is  only  on  account  of  the  war 
that  it  is  suffering  this  unwonted  masculine  invasion. 
The  Modiste's  clients  are  not  in  Paris  these  days,  or, 
if  they  are,  they  are  not  buying  Paradise  plumes. 
The  Journalist's  ascetic,  super-refined  face,  true 
product  of  Puritan  ancestors  and  Boston,  had  turned 
almost  white.  The  long  thin  fingers  were  nervously 
crumbling  bread.  Then  he  spoke. 

"You  are  talking  just  to  thresh  out  the  subject  in 
your  own  minds,  and,  as  usual,  you  are  cynical.  I 
should  do  the  same,  I  should  be  the  same  with  many 
subjects,  but  not  with  this.  The  impulse  that  drives 
foreigners  to  volunteer  for  France  is  too  sacred  to 
be  dissected.  There  may  be  more  than  one  motive 
actuating  individuals,  there  is  undoubtedly  a  large 
amount  of  disgusting  self-advertisement  on  the  part 
of  many  who  are  organizing  Rough-Riders  and  other 
volunteer  corps,  but  what  you  do  not  bring  out  is 
the  fact  of  which  you  are  as  much  aware  as  I,  because 
in  the  bottom  of  your  heart  you  feel  as  I  do.  The 
only  foreigners  in  France  are  tourists  or  those  whose 
egoism  or  lack  of  soul-life  keeps  them  aloof  and 
apart  from  the  life  of  this  country.  Potentially 
speaking,  every  man  in  whose  brain  and  heart  is  de- 

127 


PARIS  REBORN 

veloped  the  love  of  that  which  is  beautiful,  has  two 
countries:  his  own  and  France.  Potentially  speak- 
ing, I  say;  and  that  is  why  I  can  make  of  this  state- 
ment a  universal  proposition.  For,  no  matter  where 
he  was  born,  no  matter  what  his  antecedents  may 
have  been,  when  the  man  with  a  soul  comes  to  live 
in  France,  and  by  France,  you  understand,  I  mean 
Paris,  he  is  at  home.  If  he  is  not  at  home  here,  he 
has  no  soul.  Then,  it  necessarily  follows  that  we 
are  patriotic  Frenchmen  in  spite  of  being  foreigners. 
If  we  volunteer — or,  I  ought  to  say,  when  we  volun- 
teer— it  is  because  of  love,  and  is  not  the  test  of  love 
the  willingness  to  give  our  lives'?" 

On  the  way  back  to  work,  the  Journalist  accom- 
panied us.  We  left  the  Lawyer  on  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens,  and  went  down  the  Rue  de  Richelieu  to 
cross  the  Pont  des  Saints-Peres.  For  my  office  as 
well  as  for  my  residence,  I  still  hold  to  the  Rive 
Gauche. 

It  occurred  to  us  both  at  the  same  moment — or 
was  it  mental  suggestion  from  his  brain  to  mine*? — 

C-*<_7 

to  pass  by  way  of  the  Palais  Royal,  where  the  Herald 
had  announced  there  was  a  recruiting  office  of  the 
American  Volunteer  Corps. 

Under  the  arcade,  crowded  in  between  the  shops 
of  questionable  jewelers  and  questionable  booksellers, 
the  wee  American  recruiting  headquarters  was 
marked  by  our  flag. 

128 


THE  FOREIGN  VOLUNTEERS 

The  Journalist  clutched  my  arm  as  we  entered. 
I  could  feel  in  the  pressure  of  his  fingers  a  suggestion 
of  his  struggle  for  self-control. 

Two  Americans,  not  of  the  Journalist's  type,  were 
running  the  office,  and  a  dark-haired  man,  whose  eyes 
suggested  a  Southern  and  un-American  origin,  was 
presiding  over  the  table  where  the  recruiting  slips 
were  to  be  had. 

The  two  Americans  not  of  the  Journalist's  type 
greeted  us  in  the  idiom  which  is  well  known  north  of 
Park  Row  where  the  Elevated  runs.  When  they 
discovered  that  we  were  of  the  world  that  sent  daily 
messages  to  the  newspapers  they  were  quite  solicit- 
ous about  our  having  all  the  information  "going"  of 
the  American  Volunteer  Corps,  and  the  full  names 
and  antecedents  of  those  who  were  organizing  it. 

We  made,  of  course,  the  perfunctory  motions  of 
taking  down  the  names  and  details.  I  do  not  give 
them  here,  for  the  paper  has  been  mislaid.  What 
interested  us  was  the  tall  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty 
who  was  having  some  difficulty  in  filling  out  his  re- 
cruiting slip.  So  we  moved  over  toward  the  table  at 
which  the  black-eyed  man  was  presiding. 

The  volunteer  had  a  puzzled  expression  on  his 
face  as  the  recruiting  officer  retranslated  for  him  a 
question  to  which  he  must  respond.  It  was  a  simple 
question.  But  simple  questions  do  not  always  have 
simple  answers. 

129 


PARIS  REBORN 

"Why  am  I  volunteering4?"  stammered  the  boy. 

I  interrupted. 

"Put  down,"  I  said  to  the  recruiting  officer,  "this 
answer:  'Because  I  love  France  and  I  want  to  help 
in  preserving  her  as  the  beacon-light  of  civiliza- 
tion.' " 

"Say,  that 's  all  right,"  remarked  the  relieved  vol- 
unteer. "I  did  n't  know  what  in to  give  for 

that  one." 

The  recruiting  officer,  when  the  boy  had  signed 
his  name,  arose  ceremoniously,  shook  hands  with  the 
new  soldier  of  France,  and  said:  "Now  you  must 
turn  up  here  every  morning  at  eight  o'clock  for  drill. 
They  've  given  us  permission  to  use  the  Garden  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  so  we  shall  drill  here." 

The  two  other  Americans  shook  hands  with  the 
volunteer,  and  congratulated  him.  So  did  we.  As 
he  was  going  out,  he  hesitated  a  moment,  turned  his 
straw  hat  over  several  times  in  his  hands,  and  then 
asked, 

"When  is  the  grub  going  to  begin  on  this  deal?" 

"On  the  22nd,"  the  three  answered  succinctly  and 
in  chorus.  They  were  evidently  accustomed  to  the 
question.  He  need  not  have  hesitated.  From  the 
boy's  face  I  judged  the  22nd  seemed  a  long  way  off. 
The  Journalist  and  I  flashed  a  look  at  each  other,  and 
hurried  out  to  give  him  something  to  tide  him  over. 
But  the  volunteer  had  disappeared. 

130 


THE  FOREIGN  VOLUNTEERS 

So  had  the  spell  over  the  Journalist.  At  least  I 
thought  so  for  the  moment.  But  he  was  holding 
fast  to  his  thesis  of  the  luncheon  table.  For,  when 
we  parted  at  the  Quai  Voltaire,  he  remarked  simply 
without  explanation,  knowing  that  none  was  needed, 
"I  must  talk  it  over  with  my  wife  first." 

The  22nd,  for  which  thousands  of  others  stranded 
like  the  boy  at  the  Palais  Royal  had  been  waiting, 
has  come.  Since  the  American-Journalist-Who- 
Loves-France  went  home  to  talk  it  over  with  his  wife, 
I  have  seen  notices  appealing  to  different  categories 
of  foreigners  to  volunteer  under  the  auspices  of  a 
multitude  of  organizations.  Recruiting  has  been 
carried  on  actively  among  rich  and  poor,  fortunate 
and  unfortunate,  educated  and  ignorant.  Student 
societies  of  the  Latin  Quarter  have  vied  with  the 
clubs  of  the  Boulevards  and  Passy  and  the  trades- 
unions  of  Belleville  and  St.  Denis. 

The  result  I  saw  this  afternoon  on  the  Esplanade 
des  Invalides.  The  fourteen  Crimean  veterans  and 
the  twenty-three  of  the  Solferino  campaign  were  tak- 
ing their  usual  sun-bath  by  the  cannon  on  the  talus. 
But  this  time  before  their  eyes  was  being  enacted  a 
far  different  drama  from  that  of  August  5.  Here 
was  an  offering  of  human  lives  instead  of  machines : 
here  was  an  outpouring  of  the  love  than  which  no 
man  hath  greater.  There  were  the  same  bureaux  de 
fortune,  the  same  pine  tables,  and  the  same  three 


PARIS  REBORN 

chairs.  But  it  was  a  dealing  in  flesh  and  blood: 
how  great  the  difference ! 

The  foreign  volunteers  marched  into  the  Espla- 
nade, following  the  flag  of  the  countries  which  they 
represented.  I  will  not  enumerate  the  flags.  Just 
open  a  geography  or  almanac,  copy  down  the  list  of 
the  civilized  nations  of  the  world,  and  you  will  have 
the  nomenclature  of  the  volunteering  groups.  Even 
the  subjects  of  Wilhelm  II  and  Franz  Josef  were  not 
lacking  in  the  number  of  those  who  came  to  join  the 
Foreign  Legion. 

They  marched  into  the  Esplanade,  following  their 
own  flags  and  in  distinct  groups.  They  marched  out 
soldiers  of  France,  following  the  flag  of  France.  It 
was  the  complete  sinking  of  self  into  the  whole,  as 
the  Modiste  had  said  it  must  be.  The  motives  of 
volunteering  may  have  been  mixed,  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  these  men  have  volunteered,  and  that 
what  they  are  offering  is  all  they  have  to  give.  I  am 
not  a  cynic,  and  I  have  no  right  to  form  a  judgment 
contrary  to  that  of  the  American- Journal  ist-Who- 
Loves-France.  For  he  is  of  those  who  march,  and  I 
am  not. 


132 


XIV 

PARIS    PRAYS 

August  twenty-third. 

JUST  three  weeks  since  the  war  started !  The  mo- 
bilization is  now  completed.  France  is  ready 
for  the  gigantic  struggle.  At  least  we  are  assured 
that  she  is  ready.  All  that  has  been  accomplished  in 
these  weeks — the  absolutely  essential  preparations  to 
prevent  the  invader  from  rushing  into  the  northern 
and  northeastern  departments — makes  one  realize 
what  would  have  happened  had  the  Belgians  allowed 
a  free  passage  to  the  Kaiser's  hordes.  The  Germans 
would  certainly  have  been  at  the  gates  of  Paris  to- 

The  initial  successes  of  the  French,  the  bold  dash 
into  Alsace  and  the  occupation  of  the  crests  of  the 
Vosges,  may  have  been  exaggerated.  But  they  have 
certainly  given  confidence  to  Paris.  And  then  there 
was  the  immediate  entry  of  Great  Britain  into  the 
fray,  the  unexpected  ability  of  Lie*ge  to  hold  out  for 
ten  days,  and  the  neutrality  of  Italy. 

These  weeks  of  mobilization  have  witnessed  a 
change  in  public  opinion  from  dismay  and  dread  to 

133 


PARIS  REBORN 

exultation  and  joy  and  faith.  Fortunately,  we  are 
raiding  the  mean.  Who  does  not  now  realize  that 
the  war  is  just  beginning,  that  the  enemy  is  formida- 
ble, that  a  toll  of  human  life  will  be  exacted  great 
enough  to  make  our  generation  notable — and  terri- 
ble— in  history,  and  that  victory  will  come  only  by 
straining  every  nerve  and  by  being  prepared  for  every 
sacrifice*? 

It  is  fitting,  then,  that  this  Sunday  should  have 
been  a  day  of  prayer  and  fasting.  The  scenes  at 
Notre  Dame,  the  Madeleine,  St.  Etienne-du-Mont, 
Sainte-Clothilde,  Saint-Roch,  and  other  parish 
churches  marked  a  new  era  in  the  religious  life  of 
France.  Some  went,  perhaps,  to  mourn  the  death 
of  the  Pope.  They  were  les  fideles,  whose  feet  are 
habitually  turned  to  the  houses  of  prayer.  But  the 
incessant  procession  in  one  door  and  out  of  the  other 
was  largely  composed  of  those  who  are  accustomed 
to  go  to  church  only  at  Easter  and  Christmas,  or  to 
a  wedding  or  a  funeral — and  then  not  to  pray. 

To-day  Parisians  felt  that  they  had  to  go  to 
church.  They  could  not  help  themselves.  They 
went  silently.  They  came  away  silently.  There 
was  silence  in  the  churches.  High  mass,  with  choir 
and  organ,  had  no  place  in  the  heart  of  worshipers. 
At  the  altar  of  every  chapel,  and  at  the  high  altar 
as  well,  priests  were  celebrating  in  a  silence  only 
broken  by  the  acolyte's  bell.  There  is  much  in  com- 

134 


PARIS  PRAYS 

mon  between  a  Quaker  meeting  and  a  low  mass  of 
the  Catholic  church.  Men  do  not  always  need  words 
or  music  to  worship  together  in  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness— for  that  is  silence,  is  it  not? 

The  kneeling  multitudes  were  thinking  of  loved 
ones  before  Namur  and  Nancy.  Conflicting  emo- 
tions of  fear  and  hope  were  seeking  the  relief  that 
comes  through  renunciation. 

One  mother  beautifully  expressed  the  spirit  of 
Paris  at  prayer,  as  she  came  down  the  steps  of  St. 
Sulpice  this  morning.  In  a  low,  clear  voice,  slowly 
but  unhesitatingly,  she  said, 

"My  boys  may  come  back  to  me.  I  do  not  know. 
That  rests  with  God.  But  I  can  be  loyal  to  my 
country,  I  can  get  peace  this  day,  only  if  I  am  willing 
to  give  them  up.  Some  must  die.  If  I  pray  for  the 
safety  of  mine — that  is  selfish,  and  does  not  lift  the 
burden  from  my  heart.  But  if  I  pray  for  strength 
for  myself  to  feel  proud  that  I  have  sons  to  give  for 
my  country,  and  for  strength  for  them  to  do  their 
duty  in  the  hour  of  battle,  then  I  know  that  the 
Other  Mother  who  gave  her  Son  has  heard  me,  and 
there  is  joy  even  in  tears." 

Usque  ad  aras.  Since  that  idea  has  gained  root, 
will  those  who  hold  it  fail  to  endure — and  win? 


135 


XV 

THE    FIRST    DISILLUSIONMENT 

August  twenty- fourth. 

I  HAVE  not  been  able  to  make  head  or  tail  out 
of  the  official  bulletins  since  August  fifteenth. 
Ten  days  ago  the  French  army  entered  Belgium 
by  Charleroi  and  the  British  troops  were  disembarked 
at  Ostend.  The  communique  of  the  fifteenth  said 
a  decisive  battle  would  be  fought  within  a  week. 
On  the  sixteenth  we  read  that  there  was  a  great  suc- 
cess at  Dinant,  that  the  Germans  were  demoralized, 
that  many  of  them  wanted  to  make  themselves  pris- 
oners, that  the  soldiers  captured  declared  the  war 
absurd,  told  of  protests  and  uprisings  in  many  Ger- 
man cities,  and  complained  of  hunger.  On  the  sev- 
enteenth the  Germans  were  repulsed  on  the  Meuse  in 
Belgium.  On  the  eighteenth  they  retreated  in  dis- 
order from  the  Vosges,  and  the  communique  quoted 
General  JofTre  as  saying  that  "the  Germans  were 
completely  disorganized."  On  the  twentieth  Mul- 
house  was  reoccupied  by  the  French;  and  the  Rus- 
sians inflicted  another  "crushing  defeat"  upon  the 
Germans,  although  there  was  this  mystifying  passage 

136 


THE  FIRST  DISILLUSIONMENT 

in  the  communique:  "Within  a  hundred  kilometers 
around  Warsaw  there  are  no  more  German  cavalry 
.  .  .  Communication  by  railway  between  Warsaw 
and  Kielce  is  reestablished."  This  was  the  first  we 
had  heard  of  the  French  withdrawing  once  from 
Mulhouse  and  of  the  German  invasion  of  Poland! 
On  the  twenty-first  the  Germans  were  reported  to 
have  fallen  back  in  Alsace  upon  the  Rhine,  and  only 
one  small  French  village  was  in  the  enemy's  posses- 
sion. 

But  on  August  twenty-second,  the  change  began 
to  come  in  the  news.  The  French  army  invading 
Lorraine  "continued  to  fall  back  on  Nancy  before 
superior  forces."  On  the  twenty-third  it  seemed 
that  Namur  was  partially  invested,  that  the  Belgian 
army  had  withdrawn  to  Antwerp,  and  the  German 
scouts  were  advancing  in  the  direction  of  Ghent  and 
the  French  frontier.  Last  night's  communique  de- 
clared :  "It  is  certain  that  if  our  losses  in  the  course 
of  these  three  last  days  have  been  serious,  those  of  the 
Germans  have  been  equally  serious." 

This  morning  Paris  was  stirred  by  the  publication 
of  an  article  in  the  Matin,  signed  by  Senator  Gervais, 
in  which  the  French  retreat  from  Lorraine  was  ad- 
mitted. More  than  this,  the  reason  given  for  the  re- 
treat was  that  a  portion  of  the  Fifteenth  Division 
had  shown  cowardice  and  had  drawn  the  whole  di- 
vision into  a  precipitate  backward  movement.  Sen- 

137 


PARIS  REBORN 

ator  Gervais  specifically  named  the  regiments  from 
Toulon,  Marseilles,  and  Aix  as  those  responsible  for 
the  retreat.  In  conclusion,  the  Senator  declared  that 
severe  measures  of  repression  had  been  taken  against 
the  soldiers  who  had  dishonored  their  country  and 
caused  disaster.1 

I  walked  blocks  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  Matin  this 
morning.  Everybody  was  "out."  All  Paris  was 
reading  the  Matin. 

This  is  the  first  admission,  from  an  authoritative 
source,  that  our  armies  have  suffered  defeat.  After 
the  rosy  hue  of  the  communiques  of  the  past  few 
days,  after  the  widespread  belief  in  the  collapse  of 
Germany's  house  of  cards,  after  the  prophecies  of  a 
triumphal  entry  into  Berlin  before  Christmas  — 
what  a  disillusionment  for  us! 

But  the  attitude  of  Paris  in  the  face  of  this  first 
bad  news  is  admirable  beyond  expression.  I  believe 
that  no  people  could  have  taken  their  medicine  bet- 
ter. Considering  that  yesterday  the  talk  was  all 
about  the  invasion  of  Germany  and  that  to-day  the 
probability  of  the  German  invasion  of  France  is  be- 
fore us,  the  acceptance  by  the  public  of  the  new  situa- 
tion with  calmness  and  unflinching  determination  to 
believe  still  in  General  Joffre  and  his  army  makes 

1  As  a  result  of  this  ill-advised  publication,  the  Matin  has  been 
boycotted  in  the  cities  mentioned.  As  late  as  Christmas  the  ven- 
deuses  of  the  kiosques  in  Marseilles  have  been  known  to  handle 
roughly  the  unsuspecting  traveler  who  dared  to  ask  for  the  Matin. 

138 


THE  FIRST  DISILLUSIONMENT 

one  confident  that  Paris  will  keep  herself  in  hand, 
come  what  may. 

Aside  from  the  fact  that  the  letter  of  Senator  Ger- 
vais  revealed  that  all  was  not  well  with  the  French 
military  operations,  there  was  also  a  grave  breach  on 
the  part  of  the  Matin  of  the  journalistic  pledge  to 
observe  the  policy  of  anonymity.  A  specific  di- 
vision was  named  and  regiments  of  that  division  held 
up  for  disgrace. 

It  is  bad  enough  for  Senator  Gervais  to  insult  un- 
justly cities  of  southern  France,  whose  soldiers  are 
as  brave  as  any  who  are  fighting  on  the  battlefields 
of  Europe  to-day.  It  is  worse  if  "severe  measures 
of  repression"  are  taken  against  the  survivors  of  the 
regiments  that  faltered.  The  psychology  of  battles 
is  so  delicate  that  what  happened  in  Lorraine  to  these 
regiments  might  have  happened  anywhere  to  any 
regiments.  Stampedes  are  often  caused  by  acci- 
dents beyond  the  control  of  the  will  of  the  individ- 
uals caught  in  their  vortex.  It  stands  to  reason  that 
if  both  sides  always,  under  all  circumstances,  stuck 
to  their  posts  to  the  bitter  end,  armies  would  be  anni- 
hilated and  war  would  not  be  what  it  is. 

Instead  of  being  made  examples  of,  what  these 
boys  of  Provence  need  is  an  affectionate  word  from 
their  commanding  officers.  More  effective  than 
shooting  them  down  would  be  the  arm  of  the  officer 
around  the  frightened  men,  and  a  pat  on  the  back 

139 


PARIS  REBORN 

to  reassure  them.  There  is  no  man  who  at  some 
time  in  his  life  has  not  shown  the  white  feather.1 
It  is  only  when  it  happens  twice,  and  by  his  own  will, 
that  he  can  be  called  "coward." 

1  For  an  example  which  shows  the  injustice  of  Senator  Gervais 
to  the  soldiers  of  the  Midi,  the  panic  among  the  immortal  brigade 
of  the  5th  and  yth  Hussars  of  Lasalle  in  1806  can  be  cited.  These 
were  war-hardened  troops,  of  unquestioned — and  many  times  tested 
— bravery. 


140 


XVI 

SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  is  AT  WORK 

August  twenty-seventh. 

IT  has  been  a  psychological  mistake  to  feed  us  with 
news  of  victories,  and  to  suppress  news  of  re- 
verses. Since  last  Friday,  by  one  of  those  weird 
telepathic  instincts  to  which  people  as  a  community 
are  sensible,  we  have  become  anxious  and  depressed. 
We  are  irritated.  From  the  boy  in  the  passage  by 
the  Gare  Saint  Lazare  who  shines  my  shoes  to  the 
Senator  of  the  Rue  Babylone  who  sits  among  the 
I  mm  or  t  els  every  Thursday  afternoon,  I  find  the 
same  sentiment  of  disgust  with  the  censorship. 
"We  are  not  children!"  cries  the  bootblack.  "We 
are  not  children!"  echoes  the  Academician. 

When  the  gong  rang  at  five  minutes  of  four  this 
afternoon,  I  was  glad  to  turn  in  the  manuscript  upon 
which  I  was  working,  and  I  noticed  a  similar  alacrity 
on  the  part  of  other  readers  at  the  Bibliotheque  Na- 
tionale.  We  all  hurried  out  into  the  Rue  de  Riche- 
lieu, and  made  straight  for  the  kiosque  across  the 
street  on  the  corner  of  the  Square  Louvois.  A  dozen 
musty  subjects  of  past  centuries  were  forgotten  in 

141 


PARIS  REBORN 

an  instant.  We  spent  our  sous  for  the  little  single 
sheets  they  call  newspapers  these  days,  and  turned 
as  if  we  had  been  in  long  training  to  the  column  con- 
taining the  last  communique,  as  the  official  bulletin 
is  called.  Rien  de  nouveau — nothing  new.  This 
has  been  our  chorus  for  days.  Wait  a  minute. 
NAMUR  STILL  HOLDS  OUT  !  Why,  we  did  not  know 
that  Namur  was  besieged.  THE  GERMANS  DRIVEN 
BACK  FROM  MALINES!  Is  not  Malines  near  Ant- 
werp? How  could  the  Germans  have  got  there? 

It  is  something  like  this  every  day.  And  a  dozen 
men,  whose  business  in  life  is  to  find  evidence  that 
will  overthrow  the  theories  of  some  fellow  who  has 
written  on  their  particular  subject  long  ago  and  to 
gain  a  reputation  by  proving  him  wrong  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  go  their  different  homeward  ways,  won- 
dering if  the  present  is  n't  as  perplexing  as  the  past, 
and  whether  the  Censor  does  not  afford  as  interesting 
an  object  of  attack  as  the  long-dead  German  scholars 
whose  impeccability  they  are  trying  to  destroy. 

I  take  to  the  Grands  Boulevards  between  four  and 
five  as  an  antidote  to  what  I  have  been  burying  my 
nose  in  during  the  better  part  of  the  summer  day. 
I  fear  sometimes  that  I  may  forget  the  truth  and  joy 
of  nihil  Tiumani  a  me  alienum  puto  more  than  that 
I  may  have  to  wear  spectacles.  So  I  take  to  the 
Grands  Boulevards,  spend  an  occasional  hour  in  a 
cinema,  gaze  into  the  shop  windows  and  seek  out  an 

142 


I 

J^ftfifc-^        .       V-T 


jfm 

At  a  kiosk  on  the  Grande  Boulevard.     Buying  the  latest  communique 


SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  IS  AT  WORK 

tf/>m///-addicted  friend  who  is  no  more  interested  in 
my  fourteenth-century  history  than  I  am  in  his  steel 
rails  f.o.b.  Pittsburgh. 

I  go  the  length  of  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines 
and  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine  without  meeting 
any  one  I  know.  Paris  is  thinning  out  these  days. 
The  Artist  had  to  go  home  to  his  wife.  I  reconciled 
myself  to  his  departure  because  it  was  necessary. 
But  how  about  those  that  deserted  the  ship  be- 
fore the  first  leak  had  sprung*?  How  about  the  oth- 
ers who  are  getting  ready  now  to  desert  it  if  the  real 
news  is  what  we  fear  it  is  ?  I  can  tell  from  the  faces 
of  those  I  pass  that  the  old  axiom  of  "no  news  is  good 
news"  has  no  acceptance  in  Paris. 

Of  the  many  cafes  on  the  Rue  Royale,  the  dullest 
of  them  all  (before  midnight)  is  the  one  best  known 
to  Americans.  It  is  equally  dull  after  midnight, 
because  it  is  so  evidently  a  "plant"  for  the  stranger 
within  our  gates.  But  these  days  there  is  no  after 
midnight.  Maxim's  is  in  the  depths.  Its  terrace 
is  never  much  frequented,  so  I  am  surprised  to  find 
the  Pasha  sitting  there.  His  pasty  face  is  expres- 
sionless ;  the  fleshy  bags  under  his  eyes  do  not  quiver 
a  bit;  and  the  curve  of  his  nose  is  as  mournful  as  a 
crow's  in  a  cornfield  before  the  spring  sowing.  He 
fingers  his  glass  by  its  fragile  stem,  turning  it  around 
on  the  saucer,  and  gazes  out  into  the  deserted  street 
as  if  there  were  nothing  in  his  mind  or  there. 


PARIS  REBORN 

Certainly  there  is  nothing  of  interest  in  the  street, 
usually  so  animated  at  this  hour.  Here  I  was,  al- 
most at  the  Hotel  Crillon,  and  I  had  not  been 
tempted  anywhere  to  sit  down.  There  was  n't  even 
a  pretty  girl  carrying  a  box  that  unmistakably  indi- 
cated its  contents  and  her  profession,  whose  looks 
and  dress  demonstrated  her  superiority  and  attrac- 
tion to  the  demi-mondaine  with  rings  that  the  honest 
toil  of  a  milliner's  lifetime  would  not  suffice  to  pur- 
chase. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  street.  But  one  would 
do  injustice  to  the  Pasha  to  believe  that  there  could 
be  nothing  in  his  mind.  A  mystery  of  a  parasitical 
and  lazy  stock,  like  that  of  the  landowning  Turks,  is 
that  it  has  given  to  the  world  keen,  alert  men  who 
have  failed  to  become  giants  in  the  domain  of  mind 
only  by  the  hopeless  lack  of  opportunity  afforded  by 
their  governmental  and  social  system.  Some  Pashas 
may  be  fools :  but  not  this  one. 

This  was  not  steel  rails  f.o.b.  Pittsburgh,  but  it 
was  just  as  welcome.  So  I  greeted  him. 

"May  I  be  permitted  two  questions,  Excellence?" 
I  asked,  and  without  waiting  for  the  permission  con- 
tinued, as  I  grasped  a  cordially  outstretched  hand: 
"A — Why  do  you  sit  in  front  of  Maxim's,  and  B — 
What  makes  you  look  so  much  sadder  than  usual*?" 

"I  shall  answer  A,  and  prove  the  sincerity  of  my 
answer  by  action  while  I  answer,"  he  said,  rising 

146 


SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  IS  AT  WORK 

from  his  seat.  "One  alone  might  as  well  sit  here  as 
anywhere,  but  now  that  you  have  come,  let  us  go  on 
up  the  street  to  Weber's.  When  we  get  there,  I 
shall  answer  B." 

Weber's  was  full.  No  table.  Ah !  there  was  the 
Lawyer,  shoveling  ice  into  a  vermouth-cassis  with 
his  left  hand,  for  the  right  was  gesticulating  wildly 
under  the  nose  of  a  French  cavalry  officer.  Two 
more  chairs  were  produced  from  somewhere,  and  the 
Pasha  appealed  to  the  Lawyer  and  the  Cavalry  Of- 
ficer. 

"Do  I  look  sadder  than  usual*?"  he  asked.  "I  do 
not  object  to  the  adjective,  but  only  to  the  compara- 
tive degree.  I  lost  the  physiognomical  ability 
of  ever  looking  sadder  when  I  sat  with  my  soldiers 
in  the  trenches  at  Tchataldja,  trying  to  prevent  them 
from  getting  cholera  by  forbidding  them  to  eat  raw 
vegetables  and  at  the  same  time  to  pacify  the  call 
of  their  stomachs  by  promises  that  bread  would  cer- 
tainly come  from  Stamboul  before  nightfall." 

The  Lawyer  and  the  Cavalry  Officer  looked  at  each 
other.  "When  your  mind  is  agitated  by  something 
bad,  there  is  always  the  relief  of  something  worse 
that  has  already  actually  happened  to  comfort  you," 
almost  whispered  the  Cavalry  Officer.  The  Lawyer 
shot  him  a  swift  glance  of  sympathy. 

The  Pasha  continued:  "This  takes  me  back  to 
those  evenings  at  Tokatlian's  in  Pera  less  than  two 

H7 


PARIS  REBORN 

years  ago  when  you  used  to  come  hovering  around  to 
get  our  interpretation  of  the  communiques  of  the 
Agence  Ottomane."  The  Pasha  was  looking  at  me. 
"We  did  n't  know  what  was  going  on,  and  you  knew 
that  we  did  n't  know,  and  that  nobody  knew.  Yet 
there  was  always  the  question — What  do  you  think? 
Now  here  we  are  up  against  the  same  old  problem  in 
Paris.  The  communiques  do  not  communicate :  ergo, 
rumors  are  breeding  fast.  The  less  news  in  the  pa- 
pers, the  more  canards  in  the  air.  Into  these  long 
blank  places  in  our  journals  we  read  far  more  fan- 
tastic and  disquieting  things  than  what  was  actually 
there,  struck  out  by  the  pencil  of  a  foolish  censor  who 
was  afraid  that  the  truth  might  have  'a  bad  effect 
upon  the  people.'  " 

The  Cavalry  Officer  got  ahead  of  the  Lawyer  with 
a  quick  exclamation  of  approval.  "If  that  was  true 
for  Constantinople,  it  holds  doubly  true  for  Paris. 
I  know  my  people.  There  is  no  mean  possible,  un- 
less we  have  both  extremes  at  once.  To  keep  us 
where  we  ought  to  be  in  frame  of  mind  we  should 
have  good  and  bad  news  on  the  same  page:  God 
knows  there  are  both  in  store  for  us  at  this  very  mo- 
ment !  A  donkey,  placed  at  equal  distance  from  two 
bales  of  hay,  could  n't  make  up  his  mind  which  to 
tackle :  so  he  stood  still  and  went  hungry.  We  need 
to  be  like  that  donkey  now.  Elation,  whether  justi- 
fied or  not,  is  dangerous  at  the  beginning  of  a  gigantic 

148 


SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  IS  AT  WORK 

struggle,  such  as  this  is  bound  to  be.  So  is  depres- 
sion. To  avoid  both  of  these  extremes,  let  us  have 
good  news  and  bad  news  at  the  same  time." 

I  agreed. 

But  the  Lawyer  shook  his  head.  He  did  more 
than  that:  he  shook  both  hands,  and  brought  them 
down  on  the  table  with  a  force  that  startled  our 
glasses. 

"On  the  contrary,  on  the  contrary.  All  three  of 
you  are  wrong.  You  don't  understand.  Let  me 
explain.  Your  fundamental  error  is  this.  You  as- 
sume that  everybody  has  your  brains,  your  training, 
your  mental  poise.  You  think  of  how  you  feel,  and 
say  I  AM  THE  PUBLIC.  You  are  not.  You  belong 
to  an  exotic  one  per  cent.,  and  have  no  more  right  to 
speak  for  the  Public  than  you  have  to  speak  for  the 
Germans. 

"The  Public  is  a  child,  a  little  child,  a  baby  in 
arms,  and  if  it  has  developed  any  instincts,  any  ten- 
dencies at  all,  they  are  feminine.  You  protect  and 
shield  a  baby  from  shock;  you  feed  it  milk  as  you 
feed  it  medicine — in  small  doses.  Anything  pleas- 
ant, anything  happy,  you  let  the  child  see  and  share 
with  it.  If  you  possibly  can,  and  to  the  last  minute, 
you  keep  evil  from  the  child.  You  talk  about  psy- 
chology. The  Censor  thinks  more  logically  than 
you  do.  He  knows  well  that  harm  is  wrought  not 
by  evil  itself,  but  by  the  anticipation  of  evil. 

149 


PARIS  REBORN 

Canards,  less  true  than  the  facts,  about  what  is  going 
to  happen,  or  more  exaggerated  than  the  facts,  do 
less  harm  than  the  facts.  Half  who  hear  them  say, 
'Well,  they  may  not  be  true — they  're  canards,  after 
all.'  The  other  half  would  get  excited  no  matter 
what  did  or  did  not  happen.  But  the  facts,  if  un- 
favorable, work  on  the  nerves  of  the  Public,  and, 
when  the  blow  falls,  the  Public  is  less  able  to  bear 
up  than  if  the  blow  came  unexpectedly." 

I  began  immediately  to  muster  up  arguments  to 
combat  the  Lawyer's  position.  But  the  Pasha  and 
the  Cavalry  Officer  were  agreeing  with  him,  and  I 
could  not  get  myself  heard.  These  lawyers  cer- 
tainly have  a  way  with  them. 

We  four  dined  together.  The  conversation 
turned  into  other  channels.  The  Pasha's  story  of 
what  happened  at  Kirk  Kilisseh  and  Lule  Burgas 
I  may  repeat  another  time.  It  does  not  belong  here. 
We  were  all  of  us  thankful  for  the  diversion.  But 
I  venture  to  say  that  the  Lawyer,  the  Cavalry  Offi- 
cer, and  the  Pasha  himself  are  going  to  bed  to-night 
with  the  same  questions  in  their  head  that  I  have  in 
mine.  WHERE  ARE  THE  GERMANS  REALLY"? 
HAVE  THEY  BROKEN  THROUGH*?  ARE  THEY 
PARIS-BOUND"? 

For,  on  my  way  home,  I  read  the  latest  com- 
munique. It  says :  "The  Franco-British  lines  have 
been  slightly  brought  backwards;  the  resistance  con- 

150 


SILENCE:  FOR  THE  CENSOR  IS  AT  WORK 

tinues.  ...  In  the  meantime,  the  Russians  are 
marching  on  the  roads  of  Eastern  Prussia,  and  Ger- 
many is  invaded."  And,  more  significant  than  the 
slight  retreat  of  our  armies  is  the  announcement  that 
the  Cabinet  has  resigned,  and  that  Viviani  has 
formed  a  new  Cabinet  with  Briand,  Delcasse,  Ribot, 
Millerand,  Sembat,  and  Guesde  for  additional  col- 
leagues. This  is  certainly  "a  Ministry  of  National 
Defense."  Is  history  going  to  repeat  itself?  After 
1870,  1914*? 

Only  six  days  ago,  the  official  communiques 
boasted:  "It  is  pleasant  to  state  that  there  is  no 
longer  a  single  point  of  French  territory  occupied  by 
the  enemy,  save  a  slight  bit  at  Audun-le-Roman." 

But — "the  Russians  are  advancing  on  Berlin." 
Cold  comfort  this.  I  do  not  believe  it,  and  I  find 
that  I  am  not  alone.  As  my  concierge  puts  it,  "It  is 
not  the  Russian  advance  on  Berlin,  but  the  German 
advance  on  Paris  that  interests  us." 


XVII 

THE    AFRICAN    TROOPS    PASS    THROUGH 

August  twenty-ninth. 

I  AM  glad  these  days  that  I  am  living  on  the 
"Boul  Mich."  It  is  a  direct  thoroughfare  from 
north  to  south,  and  is  thus  a  favorite  route  for  troops 
going  to  the  front. 

Last  night  I  had  hardly  finished  dinner  when  a 
hubbub  in  the  street  drew  me  to  the  door.  For  over 
two  hours  I  stood  on  the  sidewalk,  with  interest  never 
flagging,  as  regiments  from  Africa  passed,  and  re- 
ceived a  greeting  from  the  people  of  Paris.  They 
started  about  eight  o'clock  to  go  through  our  boule- 
vard. Long  after  I  had  gone  to  bed,  I  heard  the 
clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  asphalt,  the  jangle  of 
harness  and  creaking  of  wheels  of  the  gun-carriages, 
the  laughter  and  cheers  of  the  spectators,  and  the 
quick  repartee  of  the  soldiers. 

I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the  French  will  regret 
the  introduction  of  large  bodies  of  African  troops 
into  the  war  on  European  soil.  If  the  Allies  are 
honestly  anxious  to  avoid  sullying  their  arms  with 
the  atrocities  of  which  they  accuse  the  Germans,  they 

152 


THE  AFRICAN  TROOPS  PASS  THROUGH 

will  not  fail  to  see  the  mistake  of  this  move.  It  is 
only  dire  necessity — and  perhaps  the  desire  to  fore- 
stall an  appeal  of  the  Germans  to  Islam  through 
their  alliance  with  the  Khalif  at  Constantinople — 
that  could  have  dictated  this  move. 

The  Battle  of  Leipzig,  which  brought  about  the 
downfall  of  Napoleon's  military  power,  has  been 
called  the  Battle  of  Nations.  All  Europe  was  in- 
volved in  that  struggle.  But  1914  is  going  to  mark 
a  new  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  world,  for  the  com- 
position of  the  battle-line  between  the  Marne  and 
Aisne  will  see  gathered  under  the  British  and  French 
flags  soldiers  from  every  continent  in  the  world. 

Let  them  come  in  hordes,  the  volunteers  from 
Spanish  America  and  Canada  and  Australia.  These 
are  white  men.  They  have  the  right  to  shed  their 
blood  in  deciding  the  destinies  of  Europe.  Europe 
is  their  mother,  both  as  to  blood  and  as  to  civiliza- 
tion. But  what  can  we  say  of  the  Moroccans,  the 
Berbers,  the  Senegalese,  the  Hindus,  the  Sikhs,  the 
Sepoys,  the  Gurkhas,  the  Afghans,  and  the  Burmese*? 
It  would  have  been  well  if  the  Hague  Convention 
had  forbidden  Colonials,  other  than  of  pure  Eu- 
ropean blood,  to  be  employed  in  wars  upon  the  con- 
tinent of  Europe.  The  French  have  always  bitterly 
opposed  this.  Their  corps  of  African  sharpshooters 
did  valiant  service  against  the  Prussians  in  1870. 
Now,  more  than  ever,  does  France  feel  that  she  must 

153 


PARIS  REBORN 

rely  upon  her  African  subjects  to  help  in  reducing  her 
great  numerical  inferiority  to  the  Germans.  Great 
Britain,  too,  smarts  under  the  handicap  of  her  ridic- 
ulously small  trained  army,  and  seeks  to  increase  her 
forces  by  calling  in  her  troops  from  India. 

Perhaps  I  am  wrong.  It  may  be  the  part  of  wis- 
dom to  use  this  opportunity  for  emphasizing  the  soli- 
darity of  all  the  elements — especially  the  Moslem 
element — in  the  Colonial  empires  of  France  and 
Great  Britain.  But  God  help  the  Germans  when 
they  fall  into  the  hands  of  these  Turcos !  It  may  be 
a  foolish  misgiving.  But  I  could  not  watch  them 
pass  towards  the  Gare  du  Nord  without  the  fear  that 
the  flags  of  the  Powers  of  western  Europe  may  be 
dishonored  before  the  year  is  over. 

The  Parisians  are  not  thinking  of  such  an  eventu- 
ality. What  I  saw  last  night  is  sufficient  proof  of 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  this  aid  is  being  received 
and  the  confidence  which  it  inspires.  These  are  dark 
days,  indeed,  for  Paris.  Who  knows  but  what  the 
Turcos  may  prove  a  tower  of  strength  in  the  defense 
of  the  city?  When  we  come  to  the  elemental  con- 
siderations of  self-defense,  "Necessity  knows  no 
law." 

There  must  have  been  two  divisions,  one 
of  Senegalese  and  the  other  of  Turcos.  They 
were  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  regiments  of  reserv- 
ists we  have  become  accustomed  to  see.  Instead 

154 


THE  AFRICAN  TROOPS  PASS  THROUGH 

of  the  pale  faces  of  city  men,  torn  from  the  desk  and 
the  counter  to  shoulder  arms,  here  were  swarthy  war- 
riors, covered  with  dust  and  grime.  They  swung 
along  with  a  gait,  in  which  the  nonchalance  of  their 
French  officers  was  mingled  with  the  suppleness  of 
the  savage,  and  the  habitude  of  the  professional  sol- 
dier. 

The  delight  at  the  ovation  they  received  was  that 
of  children.  Every  one  had  something  to  give,  to- 
bacco, beer  and  wine  in  bottles,  cakes  of  chocolate, 
flowers,  and — where  the  purse  was  lacking — the 
heart  of  the  midinette,  more  gamine  on  the  "Boul 
Mich"  than  anywhere  else  in  Paris,  bestowed  kisses 
regardless  of  color. 

Officers  smiled  gaily,  and  waved  their  hand  at 
every  pretty  girl.  No  sharp  word  was  spoken  when 
a  soldier  left  the  line  and  made  a  dive  through  the 
crowd  to  a  door,  where  a  beaming  shopkeeper  held 
out  offerings  from  his  stock.  From  the  saddles  of 
officers,  from  the  barrels  of  soldiers'  rifles,  bunches 
of  flowers  sprouted.  On  one  soldier's  back  cakes  of 
chocolate  protruded  from  his  extra  pair  of  boots.  At 
another's  belt  dangled  a  choice  sausage,  hitting  his 
bayonet  sheath  at  every  step. 

The  Turcos  made  good  use  of  their  limited  French. 
They  were  hoarse  from  responding  to  the  Au  revoir, 
Bon  courage,  Bonne  chance,  Sus  a  Guillaume,  and 
other  sentiments  of  the  crowd.  They  assured  the 

155 


PARIS  REBORN 

Parisians  that  they  would  "eat  the  Germans,"  and 
that  Wilhelm's  day  would  be  over  when  they  reached 
the  front. 

We  do  not  know  where  the  Germans  are,  but  we 
are  sure  they  are  near.  At  any  moment,  the  bom- 
bardment may  begin.  Before  they  attack  Paris, 
however,  they  will  have  to  fight  a  colossal  battle. 
To  us,  accustomed  to  think  of  the  march  of  soldiers 
as  the  monotonous  routine  of  a  machine,  and  of  im- 
pending disaster  as  something  that  weighs  down 
the  heart  and  makes  the  face  sad  and  words  few, 
the  scenes  of  the  "Boul  Mich"  last  night  afford  a 
revelation  of  character  and  of  temperament  far  dif- 
ferent from  ours.  The  passing  of  these  Turcos, 
going  to  their  death  at  a  critical  moment  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world — for  I  cannot  too  strongly  empha- 
size my  belief  that  Paris  is  France,  and  that  France 
is  the  world — would  seem  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  an 
event  whose  outlines  were  to  be  faithfully  drawn 
only  by  a  sober  description  of  a  silent  and  tearful 
reception. 

That  is  not  the  way  of  Paris.  The  nature  of  the 
Parisian  is  eternal  youth,  where  laughter  and  tears 
come  in  quick  succession.  The  tears,  however,  are 
only  the  passing  cloud,  for  Paris  is  always  full  of 
sunshine,  full  of  hope.  Death  and  disaster  are 
borne  with  a  spirit  we  would  do  well  to  emulate. 

The  superficial  observer  calls  fickleness  what  is 

156 


THE  AFRICAN  TROOPS  PASS  THROUGH 

really  heroism.  How  much  more  life  holds  for  the 
community  that  knows  how  to  laugh,  that  does 
laugh,  even  when  the  tide  is  adverse,  and  leaves  to 
the  morrow  its  burden  of  suffering  and  horror. 


157 


XVIII 

THE    TAUBEN  *    BRING    US    NEWS 

August  thirtieth. 

AT  the  time  of  the  advance  of  the  Bulgarians  on 
Constantinople  two  years  ago,  we  who  were 
in  the  Turkish  capital  did  not  realize  that  the  Turks 
had  been  defeated  in  Thrace  until  hordes  of  fright- 
ened refugees  began  to  fill  the  streets  of  old  Stam- 
boul.  They  gave  the  lie  eloquently  and  irrefutably 
to  the  official  communiques.  We  have  some  refu- 
gees in  Paris.  They  are  said  to  be  all  Belgians. 
Yesterday,  however,  I  saw  some  who  admitted  that 
they  had  come  from  Lille. 

But  if  we  wanted  proof  that  the  Government  has 
withheld  news  of  reverses  from  us,  it  was  furnished 
to-day  in  a  romantic  and  dramatic  fashion.  Per- 
haps it  has  been  accompanied  by  tragedy.  That  I 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  ascertain. 

Shortly  after  noon  a  German  aviator,  flying  at 
the  height  of  six  thousand  feet,  was  seen  appearing 

iThe  Taube  is  a  type  of  German  aeroplane.    The  French  have 
adopted  the  word. 

158 


THE  TAUBEN  BRING  US  NEWS 

from  the  direction  of  Montmartre.  He  came  over 
the  city  as  far  as  the  Gare  du  Nord,  to  destroy  which 
he  let  fall  three  bombs.  A  pennant  of  the  German 
colors,  eight  feet  long  and  weighted  by  a  sand  bag, 
fell  in  the  Rue  des  Vinaigriers.  It  bore  the  mes- 
sage: 

"The  German  army  is  at  the  gates  of  Paris.  There 
is  nothing  for  you  to  do  except  surrender.  Lieuten- 
ant von  Heidssen." 

The  Germans  have  devised  a  startling  method  for 
giving  us  information  not  yet  published  by  our  news- 
papers. Is  it  any  truer  than  what  our  journals  tell 
us?  An  aeroplane  can  come  a  long  distance.  The 
aviator  may  have  started  his  daring  flight  in  Bel- 
gium, for  all  we  know. 

Paris  has  taken  this  first  omen  of  evil  days  with 
remarkable  sang-froid.  Among  the  people,  I  find 
neither  depression  nor  nervousness.  There  is  no  ten- 
dency to  attach  importance  to  this  raid. 

To-night  I  dined  in  a  boulevard  cafe  with  two 
volunteers  of  the  Foreign  Legion  in  training  at 
Revil.  The  Irishman,  whom  I  had  barely  seen  ex- 
cept in  tablier  or  redingote,  looked  more  like  comic 
opera  than  stern  reality  in  cowhide  boots,  baggy  red 
trousers,  flapping  overcoat,  and  a  kepi  that  hardly 
covered  half  of  the  shock  of  black  hair  surmounting 
his  engaging  grin.  You  see  my  eyes  have  followed 
him  from  foot  to  head  rather  than  from  head  to  foot. 

159 


PARIS  REBORN 

But  with  the  Irishman,  one  always  comes  back  to  the 
grin — that  grin  in  which  nose  and  eyes  are  indissolu- 
bly  associated  with  the  mouth. 

If  the  Irishman  looked  out  of  fit  in  his  French 
outfit,  what  shall  I  say  of  the  Norwegian,  who  has 
been  for  so  long  the  Irishman's  companion-at- 
brushes  in  a  famous  little  studio  of  the  Rue  Vercin- 
getorix  and  who  is  now  his  companion-at-arms1?  The 
Norwegian  (he  comes  from  Iowa,  if  you  please)  has 
a  northland  face,  on  which  is  the  stamp  of  southland 
refinement.  If  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  painter, 
I  would  take  him  for  a  college  professor  who  fed  on 
Emerson  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  who  could 
be  accused  of  having  a  longer  row  of  poets  on  his 
bookshelves  than  of  the  authorities  in  the  field  in 
which  he  professed. 

There  was  no  gloom  in  the  restaurant.  That  was 
because  every  table  was  like  our  own.  These  were 
real  folks  eating  around  us,  to  whom  the  events  of 
the  day  were  matters  of  fact,  to  be  accepted  and 
faced,  rather  than  to  be  rejected  and  run  away  from. 
They  were  folks  who  had  work  to  do,  and  were 
doing  it.  They  had  not  time  to  think  of  bombs 
falling  upon  them.  It  is  only  the  empty  head  that 
has  room  for  imaginary  fears.  Having  done  their 
day's  work,  these  honest  Parisians  were  enjoying  the 
reward  of  it  in  a  well-cooked  and  well-washed-down 
meal. 

160 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries.     A  Taube  had  paid  its  usual  six  o'clock  visit 


THE  TAUBEN  BRING  US  NEWS 

In  such  an  atmosphere  we  felt  at  home,  the  Irish- 
man, the  Norwegian,  and  I.  We  read  the  evening 
communique  which  announced  that  the  houses  within 
the  zone  of  action  of  the  Paris  forts  were  to  be  razed, 
and  so  to  be  evacuated  within  four  days.  Our  mili- 
tary governor  is  certainly  taking  Lieutenant  von 
Heidssen  at  his  word,  in  so  far  as  the  first  sentence 
of  his  message  to  Paris  goes.  But  he  believes,  as  we 
all  believe,  that,  even  if  the  Germans  are  at  our 
gates,  there  is  something  else  to  do  but  surrender! 

When  we  talked  of  the  German  aviator  who 
dared  to  fly  over  Paris,  the  Irishman  raised  his 
glass. 

"Far  be  it  from  one  wearing  the  uniform  that  I 
wear  to  drink  to  the  health  of  a  German.  But  I 
cannot  help  wishing  good  luck  to  the  first  German 
invader  of  Paris.  Mighty  fine  flying  that!  I  ad- 
mire the  rascal's  nerve,  and  am  sorry  that  he  had  to 
be  a  Bocke.1  Here  's  to  him !" 

The  Irishman  expressed  the  prevailing  sentiment 
of  Parisians  this  evening.  Would  n't  Von  Heidssen 
be  surprised  if  he  knew  that  those  whom  he  came  to 
frighten  are  surreptitiously  toasting  him? 

September  second. 

Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday — the 
German  aviators'  have  come  to  regard  their  visit  to 

1  Boche  is  the  slang  word  in  Paris  for  Germans. 

163 


PARIS  REBORN 

Paris  a  part  of  their  daily  routine.  We  are  getting 
to  know  the  Tauben. 

A  few  minutes  ago,  above  the  rattle  of  the  type- 
writer as  I  was  dictating  a  statement  that  the  patrol 
organization  of  the  Army  Aviation  Corps  is  now  so 
well  organized  that  further  visits  from  German 
aeroplanes  are  impossible,  I  heard  the  unmistakable 
whirr  of  a  propeller,  followed  by  shot  after  shot. 
My  secretary  and  I  stopped  short:  we  ran  to  the 
window.  There,  right  above  us,  flying  so  low  that 
we  could  see  the  two  men  piloting  her,  a  Taube 
sailed  calmly  over  the  Boulevard  Saint  Michel. 
Above  the  Ecole  des  Mines  the  glistening  machine 
made  a  beautiful  turn  to  avoid  the  shots  that  were 
coming  from  the  Val-de-Grace,  and  flew  back  in  the 
direction  of  the  north. 

There  is  still  the  unwilling  tribute  to  the  daring  of 
the  enemy's  airmen.  But  I  can  no  longer  drink  a 
toast  to  them  as  I  did  with  the  Irishman  on  Sunday 
night.  For  their  exploits  have  included  deliberately 
murderous  bomb-throwing.  No  military  advantage 
has  been  gained  by  these  bombs.  Innocent  non-com- 
batants, women  and  children,  have  been  struck  down 
upon  the  streets.  Why  did  this  have  to  be  ?  Why 
has  daring  that  wrested  unwilling  admiration  from 
all  been  marred  in  this  way1? 

Now  that  we  see  the  reason  for  these  raids,  we 
despise  the  spirit  which  prompted  them.  We  pity 

164 


THE  TAUBEN  BRING  US  NEWS 

the  mentality  of  those  who  planned  and  executed 
them. 

These  airmen  have  come  over  our  city  in  order  to 
scare  us,  to  strike  terror  into  our  hearts,  to  cause  the 
people  to  rise  up  and  demand  peace  in  order  that 
Paris  may  be  spared  a  bombardment. 

But  this  purpose  has  not  been  accomplished. 
When  the  fourth  daily  visitor  interrupted  our  work 
a  few  minutes  ago,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  hurried  out 
into  the  street  to  see  how  the  airman's  visit  affected 
the  people.  On  the  Boulevard  Saint  Michel,  on  the 
Boulevard  Saint  Germain,  and  on  the  quays,  every 
one  was  looking  towards  the  Taube,  now  a  speck 
upon  the  horizon  over  Sacre  Cceur.  If  there  was 
excitement,  it  was  because  some  claimed  still  to  see 
the  machine,  and  were  soundly  rating  the  stupidity 
of  those  who  could  not  see  it  still  and  maintained 
that  it  had  disappeared.  What  comments  I  heard 
were  prompted  by  indignation  and  curiosity  and  by 
disgust  for  the  inability  of  our  aviators  to  prevent  the 
raid. 

Fear*?     I  saw  no  signs  of  it. 

When  the  aeroplane  had  certainly  disappeared, 
the  Parisians  went  back  to  their  work  or  to  their 
aperitifs.  Newspapers  were  opened  again,  and 
fresh  cigarettes  lit.  The  Taube  had  gone.  Why 
think  more  about  it*? 

But  this  evening  some  have  thought  more — and 


PARIS  REBORN 


will  think  more  through  the  lonely  years  ahead. 
For  lifeless  forms  have  been  lifted  from  the  streets, 
and  many  a  family,  care-free  an  hour  ago,  is 
gathered  in  the  death-chamber  of  a  loved  one. 


166 


XIX 

THE    GOVERNMENT    LEAVES    US 

September  third. 

LAST  night  it  was  so  warm  that  the  Lawyer  and 
I,  who  had  planned  to  go  out  to  the  Rue  du 
Faubourg  Saint-Honore  to  see  how  the  people  around 
the  Place  des  Ternes  were  taking  things,  got  no  far- 
ther than  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  We  waited 
there  with  the  expectant  crowd  until  a  Taube  had 
paid  the  usual  six  o'clock  visit,  and  then  went  to  sit 
in  the  Jardin  des  Tuileries  beside  the  fountain  of 
the  larger  basin.  Dead  leaves  had  already  fallen  on 
the  ground,  and  despite  the  heat  there  was  something 
of  autumn  in  the  air.  Nurses  had  taken  their 
charges  home,  and  the  only  children  around  were 
the  poor  little  devils  who  were  trying  to  make  a 
few  sous  selling  La  Presse,  Llntransigeant,  and  La 
Liberte. 

After  settling  ourselves  as  comfortably  as  we 
could  on  the  iron  chairs  the  monopolists  of  Paris 
gardens  rent  to  you,  the  Lawyer  took  out  the  Temps 
that  he  had  bought  at  a  boulevard  kiosque  when  he 
left  his  office  an  hour  ago.  He  had  not  yet  unfolded 

167 


PARIS  REBORN 

it.  We  didn't  expect  anything  new.  The  com- 
muniques for  several  days  have  been  works  of  art. 
What  remarkable  skill  in  the  combination  of  mean- 
ingless phrases !  They  are  worthy  of  the  Sioux  City 
dealer's  description  of  a  job  lot  of  horses  he  had  re- 
patriated from  a  Chicago  tramway  stable,  and  was 
palming  off  as  "just  arrived  from  the  ranch."  So 
we  opened  the  paper  indifferently. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  communique  except  that 
the  English  had  taken  ten  cannon  from  the  German 
cavalry  in  the  forest  of  Compiegne,  that  the  Germans 
had  "only  a  curtain  of  troops"  in  front  of  Belfort, 
and  news  from  Belgium  that  parts  of  several  Ger- 
man army  corps  were  returning  to  Germany.  Oh, 
I  forgot!  There  was  also  a  note  that  the  Minister 
of  War  had  visited  the  wounded  at  the  Val-de-Gra.ce, 
and  that  the  Russians  had  had  another  great  victory 
in  Galicia. 

As  has  been  our  wont  these  days,  we  turned  the 
communique  upside  down  and  inside  out.  The  Ger- 
mans in  the  forest  of  Compiegne  looked  interesting: 
that  the  German  cavalry  were  traveling  with  can- 
non was  more  interesting.  If  there  was  "only  a 
curtain  of  troops"  before  Belfort,  why  were  they  al- 
lowed to  remain  there,  and  where  was  the  rest  of  the 
German  army?  The  Minister  of  War  at  Val-de- 
Grace?  Oh,  damn !  A  Russian  victory  in  Galicia  *? 
Two  damns! 

168 


\ 


THE  GOVERNMENT  LEAVES  US 

The  Lawyer  and  I  were  reading  together.  Simul- 
taneously, when  we  had  thus  finished  the  communi- 
que, our  eyes  caught  a  large  proclamation  on  the  back 
page  of  the  Temps,  warning  the  population  of  Paris 
that  gatherings  on  public  highways  and  seditious 
cries  would  be  punished  to  the  full  rigor  of  martial 
law:  for  Paris  must  remember  that  the  state  of  siege 
is  in  force. 

"Tiens!"  I  exclaimed.  "To-morrow  is  the  anni- 
versary of  Sedan.  What  mischief  are  they  expect- 
ing?" 

The  Lawyer  turned  a  cold  but  knowing  eye  from 
the  Temps  to  me.  "More  likely  the  Government 
has  skeedaddled  or  is  skeedaddling  this  evening,  and 
they  want  to  break  the  news  gently." 

Three  hours  before,  when  the  Young  American 
Art  Student  told  me  in  the  Metro  that  the  Govern- 
ment was  going  to  Bordeaux,  or  had  already  gone, 
I  asked  him  if  he  really  believed  a  canard  like  that. 
I  did  n't  ask  the  Lawyer.  There  is  something  about 
the  Lawyer  that  makes  you  think  he  knows  what  he 
is  talking  about. 

This  morning  my  concierge  called  to  me  as  I  was 
going  out  for  breakfast,  "Look  on  the  wall  of  the 
Ecole  des  Mines  the  first  thing  you  do." 

I  crossed  the  street  with  a  presentiment  of  some- 
thing important.  Had  the  Young  American  Art 
Student  and  the  Lawyer  been  right? 

169 


PARIS  REBORN 

There  it  was,  posted  in  characters  as  bold  as  the 
words  they  formed: 

ARMY  OF  PARIS! 
INHABITANTS  OF  PARIS ! 

The  members  of  the  Government  of  the  Re- 
public have  left  Paris  in  order  to  give  a  new  im- 
petus to  the  national  defense. 

I  have  received  the  order  to  defend  Paris  against 
the  invader. 

This  order  I  will  carry  out  to  the  end. 
PARIS,  September  third,  1914. 

The  Military  Governor  of  Paris, 
Commanding  the  Army  of  Paris. 
GALLIENI. 

Quite  a  la  Parisienne,  there  were  other  affiches. 
A  long,  high-sounding  proclamation,  signed  by  Presi- 
dent Poincare,  Premier  Viviani,  and  the  members  of 
the  Cabinet;  a  proclamation  of  the  Prefect  of  the 
Seine;  and  the  reassuring  announcement  of  some  ass 
of  a  Deputy  to  the  effect  that,  while  others  fled,  he 
felt  it  his  duty,  like  Casabianca,  to  remain  on  the 
burning  deck. 

It  took  some  time  to  go  through  these  affiches. 
While  I  stood  glued  to  the  pavement  in  front  of 
them,  other  passers-by  joined  me  in  reading  a  new 
chapter  in  the  history  of  France.  They  were  all 
working  people  like  myself,  a  pushcart  woman  on 
the  way  to  the  Halles  Centrales,  a  butcher's  boy,  a 

170 


THE  GOVERNMENT  LEAVES  US 

gardener  in  the  Luxembourg,  a  wreck  of  an  artist 
or  professor  (it  is  n't  always  easy  in  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter to  distinguish),  ouvriers  in  their  blouses,  loafers, 
and  women  of  various  kinds.  From  their  remarks, 
as  well  as  from  the  fresh  paste,  I  gathered  that  the 
affiches  had  just  been  posted. 

My  entourage  was  representative  of  the  Paris  of 
seven  A.  M.,  which  is  the  Paris  that  really  counts. 
None  was  alarmed,  none  astonished,  and,  as  I  am 
trying  here  to  record  what  actually  happened  and 
how  people  actually  felt,  I  must  state  that  work-a- 
day  Paris  pays  little  attention  to  the  President's 
proclamation,  and  says  tres  bien  to  the  terse  an- 
nouncement of  General  Gallieni  rather  than  to  the 
verbosity  of  those  from  whom  he  received  the  "or- 
der to  defend  Paris  against  the  invader."  But  the 
chief  manifestation  was  hilarious  amusement  over 
the  emulator  of  Casabianca,  who  signed  himself 
GEORGES  BERRY. 

September  fourth. 

Forty-four  years  ago  to-day,  the  news  of  the 
crushing  defeat  of  Sedan  caused  the  overthrow  of 
the  Second  Empire.  By  this  sudden  and  foolish 
move  on  the  part  of  the  Parisian  populace,  France 
was  weakened  as  much  as  if  she  had  lost  a  second 
Sedan.  How  different  the  struggle  might  have 
turned  out,  if  all  parties  had  rallied  loyally  around 

171 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  Empress-Regent  Eugenie's  Cabinet,  in  spite  of 
its  mistakes  and  the  mistakes  of  the  Cabinet  it  had 
replaced;  how  different  if  France  had  faced  Bis- 
marck and  Europe  united !  Internal  political  strife, 
rather  than  the  loss  of  battles,  has  been  the  cause  of 
France's  military  weakness  and  of  her  diplomatic 
defeats.  Perhaps  it  was  the  feeling  that  civil  strife 
would  again  come  to  their  help  when  their  armies 
pressed  victoriously  towards  Paris  that  encouraged 
the  Germans  to  enter  upon  this  war. 

It  would  be  foolish  to  deny  the  palpable  fact  that 
Frenchmen  are  at  this  minute  divided  by  as  deep  and 
as  bitter  political  feuds  as  they  have  ever  known  in 
the  past.  There  are  parties  in  opposition  to  each 
other,  intriguing  and  interfering  with  the  smooth 
running  of  the  governmental  machine  at  this  critical 
moment.  To  what  can  we  attribute  the  removal 
of  M.  Hennion  as  Prefect  of  Police*?  To  what  can 
we  attribute  the  scarcely  veiled  criticisms  of  M. 
Clemenceau  and  others,  as  soon  as  things  began  to  go 
wrong  with  the  initial  plan  of  campaign? 

However,  the  Germans  are  going  to  be  disap- 
pointed this  time.  If  they  have  based  their  calcula- 
tions on  a  revolution  in  Paris,  the  Government  has 
anticipated  this,  and  has  gone  to  Bordeaux  before  it 
is  really  certain  that  Paris  can  or  will  be  invested. 
For  the  first  time  in  history — that  is,  since  the  days 
of  Charles  VII  and  Jeanne  d'Arc — France  has  been 

172 


THE  GOVERNMENT  LEAVES  US 

clear-headed  enough  to  dissociate  the  fortunes  of  the 
capital  and  the  fortunes  of  the  country.  Paris,  then, 
is  not  France.  If  the  Germans  come  here,  they  will 
have  as  hollow  and  disastrous  a  triumph  as  that 
which  awaited  Napoleon  at  Moscow. 

In  the  first  place,  patriotism  has  dominated  politi- 
cal passions.  There  will  be  strife,  perhaps  an  at- 
tempt at  revolution  in  France,  even  if  final  victory 
is  to  France.  But  this  political  strife,  I  am  glad  to 
be  able  to  say  with  conviction,  will  not  come  as  long 
as  a  German  soldier  is  upon  French  soil.  All  par- 
ties have  determined,  hard  as  it  is  for  them  to  control 
their  natural  instincts,  that  they  will  stand  by  this 
present  government  until  the  invader  has  gone. 

In  the  second  place,  it  has  dawned  upon  the 
French  that  their  military  and  political  fortunes  do 
not  necessarily  stand  or  fall  by  the  fate  of  their 
capital.  This  has  been  so  often  in  the  past  the 
enervating  cause  of  defeat.  There  are  some  who  are 
wise  enough,  at  this  time,  to  advocate  the  sacrifice 
of  pride  and  Paris.  They  say  with  sagacity  and 
clairvoyance:  "Let  us  not  base  all  our  hopes  upon 
Paris,  let  us  not  make  the  pivot  of  our  resistance  to 
the  Germans  the  keeping  of  them  out  of  the  capi- 
tal." 

Our  natural  instinct  is  to  feel  that  the  most  sacred 
duty  of  the  army  at  the  present  hour  is  the  defense 
of  Paris.  But  may  there  not  be  a  superior  tactical 

173 


PARIS  REBORN 

consideration  which  would  forbid  the  risk  of  the 
shutting  up  of  the  French  army  in  this  city1?  Paris 
cannot  well  be  defended  unless  the  General  Staff  is 
willing  to  take  this  risk. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  they  are  wise  enough  to 
withdraw  across  the  Marne,  keeping  the  army  intact, 
the  capture  of  Paris  from  the  military  point  of  view 
would  hardly  help  the  Germans :  for  its  moral  effect 
would  be  great  upon  the  French  only  if  the  French 
had  beforehand  set  all  their  hopes  upon  the  defense 
of  the  capital. 

In  view  of  the  stake  which  Russia  and  Great 
Britain  have  in  common  with  France  in  this  war,  it 
is  difficult  to  see  how  the  capture  of  Paris  would 
effect  the  general  situation.  Only  one  nation  in  the 
world  is  liable  to  be  fooled  by  such  a  specious  vic- 
tory. That  is  Turkey. 

If  the  Turkish  Cabinet  is  influenced  by  the  Ger- 
man march  on  Paris  to  cast  in  its  fortunes  with  Ger- 
many and  Austria-Hungary,  it  will  be  a  step  in  ad- 
vance for  civilization.  Turkey  should  commit 
suicide  at  this  favorable  time:  for  the  carving  of 
the  bird  can  be  best  undertaken  when  the  general 
European  settlement  is  made  after  this  war! 


174 


When  the  aeroplanes  had  certainly  disappeared,  the  people  went  back 

to  their  work 


XX 

THE    FROUSSARDS 

September  fourth. 

WHEN  I  wrote  that  the  Parisians  took  the  com- 
ing of  the  aeroplanes  calmly,  I  was,  of  course, 
speaking  of  real  folks,  of  the  million  and  a  half  or 
more  who  have  work  to  do,  and  who  would  soon  stop 
eating  if  they  stopped  working.  I  have  refrained 
from  mentioning  the  frous sards  until  I  had  time  to 
watch  their  antics  and  could  express  myself  intelli- 
gently concerning  that  sad  phenomenon,  that  mani- 
festation of  mob  spirit,  which  some  are  declaring  is 
a  panic. 

Unfortunately,  the  one  scared  man  makes  more 
noise  and  attracts  more  attention  than  the  nine  who 
are  not  scared :  consequently,  I  suppose  there  is  much 
in  the  American  newspapers  about  the  panic  in  Paris 
ever  since  last  Sunday,  when  the  first  of  the  Tauben 
paid  us  a  visit. 

The  overwhelming  majority,  overwhelming  ma- 
jority, I  say,  of  the  people  who  live  in  Paris  have  not 
been  scared,  are  not  scared,  and  will  not  be  scared. 
If  one  limits  his  observation  (as  do  most  of  our 

177 


PARIS  REBORN 

foreign  newspaper  men)  to  the  region  of  the  Etoile, 
the  Place  de  1' Opera,  the  Place  d'lena,  the  Bourse 
and  the  Place  Vendome,  and  to  the  railway  stations 
and  streets  leading  to  certain  city  gates,  he  concludes 
that  Paris  is  very  much  upset  these  days,  and  that 
there  is  a  mad  rush  to  get  away  to  safety.  But  if  he 
walks,  as  I  have  walked,  every  afternoon  since  the 
so-called  panic  began,  on  the  Rive  Gauche  between 
St.  Germain  and  the  outer  boulevards,  around  the 
Bastille,  Belleville,  Buttes-Chaumont  and  other 
places  where  lives  the  Paris  that  is  not  affected  by  the 
income  tax,  he  sees  no  sign — none  at  all — of  panic. 
On  the  Rue  Mouffetard,  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  the 
Avenue  d'Orleans,  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Poisson- 
niere,  the  Rue  de  Belleville,  the  outer  end  of  the  Rue 
de  Vaugirard — you  see  I  am  skipping  all  over  Paris 
— it  is  not  as  on  the  Avenue  Henri  Martin  and  the 
Avenue  d'lena.  Instead  of  grave  butlers  handing 
powdered  ladies,  lap  dogs,  fat  bourgeois  rentiers,  and 
a  minimum  of  luggage  which  is  more  than  the  ninety- 
line  per  cent's  maximum,  into  luxurious  limousines, 
the  outdoor  inspirers  of  Louise  are  crying  all  sorts 
of  delicious  vegetables  and  fruits,  meats  and  dairy 
products,  denizens  of  sea  and  air  that  no  longer  swim 
or  fly.  The  Paris  that  works  is  buying,  for  the 
evening  meal  that  will  be  cooked  deliciously  on  the 
little  gas  stove  or  brazier  and  eaten  as  on  any  of  the 
other  three-hundred-and-sixty-four  days  of  this  or 

178 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

any  other  year,  the  wares  in  the  pushcarts  of  the 
marchandes  des  quatre  saisons. 

But  I  am  not  writing  to-day  about  the  Paris  that 
works.  We  take  no  credit  for  not  being  scared.  If 
you  have  no  money  other  than  that  which  you  earn 
from  day  to  day,  if  running  away  from  your  job 
never  enters  your  head  because  there  is  not  the  price 
of  the  railway  ticket  and  because  there  is  no  other 
job  (and  a  job  you  must  have  in  order  to  eat)  at 
the  other  and  unknown  end  of  the  flight,  are  you 
brave  or  merely  sensible? 

This  morning  my  secretary  brought  with  her  to 
the  office  another  English  girl  who  came  to  ask  my 
advice  about  remaining  in  Paris. 

I  said  to  her,  "Are  you  dependent  upon  your  situa- 
tion here  for  your  livelihood*?" 

She  answered,  "Yes." 

Then  I  asked,  "If  you  go  away  from  Paris  do  you 
think  it  will  be  easy  to  get  another  place*?" 

She  answered,  "No." 

I  did  not  have  to  hesitate  in  advising  her.  I  gave 
her  the  same  advice  my  secretary  and  I  were  both 
exemplifying.  I  said,  "Stick  to  your  job." 

She  is  sticking.  So  are  we,  and  so  are  a  million 
and  a  half  other  Parisians.  Our  reason  for  doing  so 
is  patent.  There  is  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell ! 

I  must  get  back  to  these  froussards.  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  attempt  to  explain  what  the  word  means.  If 

179 


PARIS  REBORN 

you  don't  know  already,  you  will  before  you  have 
finished  this  letter. 

The  newspapers  have  not  told  us  where  the  Ger- 
man army  is  and  what  are  the  chances  of  success  in 
repelling  the  invasion.  One  knows  better  in  New 
York  than  in  Paris  what  is  actually  taking  place  on 
the  battlefield.  But  we  have  many  other  indications 
of  the  approach  of  the  Germans  than  the  silence  of 
the  newspapers.  First  of  all  it  was  the  refugees. 
Their  stories  could  not  be  censored.  Then  the  daily 
appearance  of  German  aeroplanes,  and  the  with- 
drawal of  the  Government.  Now  the  class  of  1914, 
boys  of  twenty,  and  the  older  reservists  are  called 
out.  France  needs  to-day  every  man  that  can  han- 
dle a  rifle. 

We  hear  that  the  railway  to  England,  by  way  of 
Boulogne  and  Folkestone,  has  been  cut  at  Amiens. 
There  is  a  notice  in  the  newspapers  that  train  serv- 
ices out  of  Paris  have  been  quadrupled,  and  that 
there  is  ample  accommodation  for  all  who  want  to 
leave  the  city,  except  in  the  direction  of  the  north 
and  east.  The  way  this  notice  is  given  is  typically 
French.  I  quote: 

"NOW  THAT  THE  PERIOD  OF  MOBILI- 
ZATION IS  OVER  THE  PUBLIC  IS  RE- 
SPECTFULLY INFORMED  THAT  THERE 
IS  SUFFICIENT  ACCOMMODATION 
AVAILABLE  FOR  ALL  TRAVELERS, 
180 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

NO  MATTER  HOW  GREAT  THE  NUM- 
BER, WHO  MAY  DESIRE  TO  LEAVE 
PARIS  TO-DAY." 

So  we  are  preparing  for  the  investment  of  Paris. 
Those  who  live  in  houses  on  the  ground  within  the 
area  of  the  forts  must  leave  and  remove  their  pos- 
sessions before  Monday,  for  it  is  the  intention,  if 
necessary,  to  tear  down  these  houses.  The  "unem- 
ployed" have  stopped  paving  the  streets  and  doing 
other  public  work,  and  are  digging  trenches  for  the 
final  stand.  On  the  heights  of  St.  Cloud,  Meudon 
and  St.  Germain,  which  dominate  the  city,  the  great 
forests  have  been  made  impassable  by  miles  and 
miles  of  barbed  wire,  strung  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
of  heavy  copper  wire  which  will  be  charged,  when 
the  need  comes,  with  a  deadly  current  of  electricity 
from  the  city  power  plants. 

Of  course  this  does  not  mean  that  Paris  will  be 
invested  and  that  a  desperate  final  stand  will  have  to 
be  made.  But  the  Government  is  very  wisely  taking 
no  chances.  Hoping  for  the  best,  we  prepare  for 
the  worst. 

In  the  last  two  or  three  days,  I  have  seen  a  revival 
of  the  scenes  that  occurred  at  the  beginning  of  mo- 
bilization, before  the  resistance  of  Liege  and  the  of- 
fensive movement  of  the  French  arms  led  the  Paris- 
ians to  believe  that  the  German  plan  of  coming  to 
Paris  had  failed.  Crowds  are  again  gathering  round 

181 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  large  grocery  stores,  and  once  more  dry  provisions 
and  canned  goods  are  being  laid  in.  "Why  once 
more1?"  you  may  ask.  "What  has  happened  to  the 
supplies  bought  four  weeks  ago1?"  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that,  as  soon  as  Paris  began  to  be  relieved  of  its 
apprehension,  people  ate  up  what  they  had  laid  in. 
For  two  weeks  rice  and  beans  and  dried  fish  formed 
the  menu  of  every  meal,  amidst  much  good  natured 
joking,  while  the  fish  and  vegetable  markets  were 
filled  to  repletion  with  stocks  that  spoiled.1 

There  is  nothing  half  way  about  the  French 
bourgeois.  Either  the  armies  are  winning  glorious 
victories  or  all  is  lost.  We  have  had  our  period  of 
exultation ;  and  now  the  depression  and  pessimism  is, 
as  an  American  farmer  would  express  it  for  want  of 
a  better  phrase,  "something  awful."  You  cannot 
get  a  cab  to-day.  All  are  bound  for  the  railway 
stations,  where  refugees  leaving  Paris  meet  refugees 
from  the  north  coming  to  Paris.  The  confusion  is 
indescribable.  But  the  railway  men  seem  to  pos- 
sess an  unusual  degree  of  sang-froid  for  French  of- 
ficials. They  are  getting  out  of  Paris  in  very  quick 
time  every  one  who  wants  to  go. 

The  spirit  of  panic  has  not  been  confined  to  the 
French  themselves.  If  I  saw  one  American  yester- 

1  So  serious  were  the  losses  of  perishable  food  stocks  that  the 
Prefect  of  Police  issued  a  poster  in  the  middle  of  August,  calling 
attention  to  the  sufficiency  and  cheapness  of  food  at  the  Halles 
Centrales,  and  urging  the  people  to  buy  fresh  meats  and  vegetables. 

182 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

day  who  was  "up  in  the  air,"  I  saw  a  hundred.  They 
do  not  know  where  they  are  going;  but  it  is  any- 
where to  get  out  of  Paris !  For  tourists,  leaving  the 
city  at  this  time  is  undoubtedly  sensible.  It  is  not 
only  an  elementary  precaution,  but  also  an  act  of 
kindness  and  thoughtfulness  to  the  Parisians.  In 
case  of  a  siege,  feeding  idle  and  useless  mouths  is 
simply  adding  an  unnecessary  burden.  But  Ameri- 
can residents  have  no  reason  whatever  to  leave  their 
homes.  They  will  only  be  going  from  Scylla  to 
Charybdis,  and  will  find  themselves  much  more  un- 
comfortable, and  exposed  to  much  greater  danger  in 
the  country  than  they  are  in  the  city,  no  matter  what 
may  happen.1 

If  tourists  are  leaving  one  has  only  to  commend 

1 1  have  never  heard  any  explanation  of  the  "Official  statement" 
given  out  by  the  American  Embassy  through  the  columns  of  the 
Paris  edition  of  the  New  fork  Herald,  advising  "all  Americans 
resident  in  Paris"  to  leave  the  city.  The  least  one  can  say  is  that 
it  was  unfortunate.  Without  the  knowledge  of  the  Ambassador, 
subordinates  in  his  office,  taken  by  panic  themselves,  did  their 
best  to  spread  the  panic  to  all  whom  they  met.  At  this  time 
there  was  in  Paris  a  volunteer  American  committee,  composed 
in  part  of  well-intentioned  men  who  were  no  more  than  tourists 
or  casual  visitors  here  themselves,  but  who  did  not  hesitate, 
in  the  ante-rooms  of  our  Embassy  chancellery,  to  speak  ex  ca- 
thedra. They  succeeded  in  frightening  very  few.  Let  it  be  said 
to  the  credit  of  a  majority  of  the  American  residents  that  they 
resisted  these  semi-official  tendencies  to  panic,  and  stayed  in  their 
comfortable  homes.  They  had  the  satisfaction  not  only  of  avoiding 
unnecessary  expense  and  discomfort  and  business  inconvenience  and 
loss,  but  also  of  giving  a  splendid  and  loyal  example  of  moral 
support  to  their  French  neighbors. 

183 


PARIS  REBORN 

their  good  sense.  But  it  is  totally  different  for  those 
foreigners  to  whom  Paris  is  home,  and  who  have 
their  business  here.  I  cannot  understand  the  spirit 
which  prompts  a  man  to  leave  his  work  when  he  is 
facing  difficulties  and,  perhaps,  danger.  It  would 
seem  that  this  would  be  the  challenge  to  him 
to  try  to  surmount  them.  It  would  seem,  too,  that 
no  duty  could  be  higher  than  that  of  the  defense  of 
one's  home.  The  writers  who  are  continually  tell- 
ing us  that  the  French  have  no  word  for  home  are 
simply  repeating  a  "bromide."  There  is  a  word 
that  has  around  it  the  most  sacred  of  associations ;  it 
is  foyer.  Where  the  hearthfire  burns,  there  is  home. 
To  us  of  foreign  birth  who  have  enjoyed  the  pleas- 
ures of  Paris  in  its  days  of  joy  and  prosperity  and 
who  have  gained  inestimable  treasures  of  precious 
memories  by  our  life  and  our  association  with  one 
of  the  noblest  races  God  has  ever  created,  it  is  little 
fitting  to  be  unwilling  to  share  the  days  of  trial. 
For  there  is  much  that  we  can  do  by  simply  staying 
here  and  continuing  our  work,  and,  if  need  be,  by 
taking  our  places  with  our  fellow-citizens  in  the 
trenches  to  defend  the  city  we  love. 

So  great  was  the  rush  on  Monday  to  leave  Paris 
that  the  police  found  themselves  in  the  physical  im- 
possibility of  writing  the  necessary  laissez-passers 
which,  under  martial  law,  are  required  for  every  one 
who  leaves  the  fortified  camp  of  Paris.  Bending  to 


I    *>-y 


v  \ 

i 

\^v^  » 

£   ' 


•    Iff^l 

••'JJK 

fl§, 

';- 

'   -4n 


The  Place  Venddme  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.     You  could  not  get  a  cab. 
All  were  bound  for  railroad  stations 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

the  inevitable,  it  was  announced  that  these  permits 
would  no  longer  be  demanded,  and  that  all  who 
cared  to  leave  the  city  could  do  so  without  any  for- 
mality whatever.  The  train  services  to  the  east  and 
north  have  been  suspended.  So  the  fleeing  Parisians 
are  congested  in  great  masses  at  the  railway  stations 
which  lead  to  the  west  and  south  of  France.  It  is 
a  case  of  precipitate  flight. 

The  panic  is  limited  to  the  well-to-do  classes,  those 
who  have  money  and  are  afraid  to  lose  it,  those  who 
have  luxuries  and  are  afraid  to  be  deprived  of  them.1 
Yesterday  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  great  crowds 
gathered  before  the  Credit  Lyonnais  waiting  their 
turn  to  get  into  their  safe  deposit  boxes :  each  had  a 
handbag  or  suit-case.  It  was  a  mad  rush  to  with- 
draw their  valuables.  For  the  rentiers  have  heard 
(and  believe  it  to  be  true !)  that  the  Germans  looted 
the  vaults  of  the  banks  in  Brussels. 

Some  of  the  banks  have  closed  their  doors  entirely. 
Most  of  the  wholesale  houses  are  shut.  One  can  go 
through  street  after  street  in  the  wholesale  districts, 
that  are  usually  humming  with  industry,  and  find 
not  a  shutter  open,  not  a  truck  standing  before  the 
warehouses,  not  a  single  husky  drayman  with  his 
hook  loading  bales  and  boxes. 

1 1  know  one  who  declared  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  a  bombard- 
ment, but  shrank  from  facing  coffee  without  milk  and  bread  with- 
out butter ! 

187 


PARIS  REBORN 

While  those  that  have  were  worrying  about  the 
treasures  they  had  laid  up  on  earth,  the  far  larger 
class  of  those  who  have  not — and  I  am  glad  I  belong 
to  them,  because  it  gives  me  nothing  to  worry 
about — were  looking  skyward  at  a  particularly  auda- 
cious German  airman  who  had  come  down  pretty 
close  to  earth.  In  the  Place  de  1'Opera,  several 
British  soldiers  were  taking  pot  shots  at  the  aero- 
plane. They  were  immediately  stopped  by  the 
policemen,  who  with  the  true  spirit  of  red  tape  which 
permeates  French  officialdom,  informed  them  that  it 
was  forbidden  by  the  ordonnance  of  February  29, 
1819,  or  some  such  ancient  date,  to  discharge  fire- 
arms in  the  streets  of  Paris.  Their  note-books  were 
out,  and  they  were  taking  the  names  of  the  soldiers 
with  the  intention  of  serving  them  with  a  proces 
verbal  for  breaking  this  regulation.  The  soldiers 
were  quite  bewildered,  as  they  did  not  understand 
French.  I  suppose  they  thought  that  their  names 
were  being  recorded  in  order  that  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  might  be  bestowed  upon  them.  In 
the  meantime,  the  aeroplane,  flying  up  the  Champs 
Elysees,  was  the  object  of  a  lively  bombardment 
from  the  rapid-firing  guns  on  the  Eiffel  Tower  and 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe.1 

That  was  yesterday. 

1As  I  learned   later,  probably  from  the   lower   garden  of   the 
Trocadero. 

188 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

This  evening,  there  is  only  one  place  in  Paris  for 
taking  your  aperitif.  Most  people  who  have  time 
and  money  to  take  aperitifs  these  days,  and  who  are 
not  engaged  in  packing  their  bags,  do  not  know  of 
this  place.  We  were  glad  of  this,  the  Lawyer  and 
I,  when  we  got  out  of  the  Gare  de  1'Est-Montrouge 
tram  and  made  our  way  through  the  crowd  of  out- 
ward-bound vehicles  to  the  terrace  of  the  cafe  op- 
posite the  Porte  d' Orleans.  For  we  could  get  a 
table  in  the  front  row  of  the  terrace  facing  the  fortifi- 
cations. The  spectacle  afforded  to  the  observer  in 
this  one  spot  and  on  this  one  day  of  the  twentieth 
century  was,  sui  generis^  unique. 

Paris  is  dull  around  the  Opera  and  the  Place  Ven- 
dome  and  the  Madeleine.  Paris  is  empty,  or  empty- 
ing, in  the  de  luxe  business  and  pleasure  quarters  of 
the  Rive  Droite.  At  this  hour  of  sunset  no  one  is  in 
the  shops  and  no  one  on  the  streets.  Pedestrians 
have  no  reason  for  being  there.  Taxi-autos  and  cabs 
are  busy  dumping  frous sards  at  the  Gares  de  Lyon, 
des  Invalides,  d'Austerlitz,  and  du  Montparnasse,  to 
join  the  miles-long  lines  of  claimants  for  standing 
room  in  freight-cars,  or  at  the  Quai  d'Orsay  for  the 
river  boats  to  Havre,  run  by  an  enterprising  Ameri- 
can who  believes  in  Carpe  'Diem  I  and  is  getting  rich 
in  a  week. 

But  the  Porte  d'Orleans  has  never  known  a  busier 
day  since  Chauchard's  funeral.  This  is  the  exit  of 

189 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  elite  who  are  spending  thousands  instead  of  hun- 
dreds of  francs  to  get  away.  An  inextricable  mass 
of  motor  and  horse  driven  vehicles,  even  of  voitures 
a  bras,  blocks  the  streets,  waiting  their  turn  to  pass 
from  Paris.  Outside,  automobiles  and  carriages 
and  wagons  are  heaped  with  boxes  and  bags :  inside, 
they  are  heaped  with  froussards. 

is  against  human  nature  to  sit  long  over  our 
five-o'clock  1  this  evening.  We  must  get  nearer  and 
see  the  fun.  So  we  dive  through  the  jumble — or 
jungle! — avoiding  with  difficulty  axle-grease,  and 
treading  on  horses'  hoofs.  A  single  gate  is  open. 
Pedestrians  pass  out  at  will,  but  even  bicycles  and 
pushcarts  must  present  the  magic  laissez-passer  to 
the  gendarmes  on  guard.  They  are  looking  par- 
ticularly for  automobiles  and  chauffeurs  who  may 
have  failed  to  pass  the  council  of  revision  during  the 
days  of  requisitioning  and  mustering.  We  could  not 
help  wondering  what  would  happen  if  a  motor-car 
were  held  up.  Turning  around  would  have  been 
impossible,  and  backing  equally  impossible.  For  on 
both  sides,  and  in  the  rear,  vehicles  of  froussards 
swarmed  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

Outside  the  gate  it  was  possible  to  breathe  air  not 
tainted  with  gasoline.     We  gulped  and  sniffed  with 

1  Five-o'clock  is  the  elegant  French  expression  for  afternoon  tea, 
and  has  nothing  to  do  with  time.  I  have  seen  the  sign  "Five- 
o'clock  a  toutes  heures,"  and  there  is  the  verb,  "je  five-o'clock — nous 
five-o'clockons." 

190 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

delight,  and  looked  to  see  if  our  clothes  were  still 
intact.  A  taxicab  chauffeur  who  had  just  received 
the  precious  stamp  allowing  him  to  pass  the  outer 
line  of  pickets  was  bending  in  front  of  his  machine 
to  crank  up.  A  head  appeared  at  the  window. 
Joy  of  joys,  a  newspaper  man  (excuse  me,  I  ought 
to  say  journalist  or  magazine  writer)  who  had  come 
to  Paris  especially  to  find  "local  war  color."  We 
accosted  him,  and  were  presented  to  his  fellow- 
travelers,  two  Frenchmen  of  the  fop  type  and  a 
Brazilian  coffee  merchant.  He  could  hardly  talk  to 
them.  They  had  picked  him  up,  or  he  had  picked 
them  up,  at  the  Bodega.  A  waiter  had  arranged 
the  deal  between  them. 

"Sharing  this  auto  to  Orleans  with  these  friends 
here,"  he  explained.  "Would  come  pretty  high 
alone — my  fourth  comes  pretty  high  as  it  is.  But 
the  Brazilian  had  the  pass,  and  we  others  are  lucky, 
don't  you  think*?" 

"Why*?"  asked  the  Lawyer,  promptly. 

"Don't  know  about  the  other  chaps,  old  man,  but 
I  am  in  luck.  Pretty  dead  here  in  Paris  just  now, 
and  I  can't  risk,  anyhow,  having  my  stuff  held  up. 
Must  go  through  this  week.  Then  I  have  a  hunch 
that  there  is  a  good  story  in  the  stranded  Americans 
being  embarked  for  England  and  America  at  Havre. 
I  can  always  get  back  to  Paris,  you  know,  even  if  I 
have  to  come  through  the  German  lines  to  do  it." 

191 


PARIS  REBORN 

Wh-r-r-r.  Chunk-chunk.  The  engine  had 
started.  A  hand  was  waved  through  the  window. 
"So  long!"  he  cried. 

"How  long?"  I  cried  back.  But  I  think  he 
did  n't  hear  me,  or,  if  he  did,  he  hardly  appreciated 
my  repartee. 

The  next  car  beside  the  octroi  window  was  filled 
with  a  Papa  and  his  three  daughters.  I  offered  to 
bet  the  Lawyer  that  the  Papa's  bag  contained  a  com- 
fortable pair  of  bedroom-salon  combination  slippers. 
The  Lawyer  answered  that  he  was  not  giving  away 
his  hard-earned  money. 

But,  while  we  were  sure  of  the  slippers,  we  won- 
dered how  much  the  Papa  had  paid  for  his  taxicab. 
Orleans-bound  too.  We  were  sure  of  that.  Too 
many  Uhlans  on  the  direct  road  to  Rouen.  Ma  foil 
The  Lawyer  went  up  to  him,  and  asked.  I  took 
off  my  hat  apologetically  to  the  girls.  They  giggled. 

The  Papa  did  not  take  offense.  "Twelve  hun- 
dred francs,  the  robber,"  he  answered  almost  life- 
lessly, even  to  the  denunciation.  As  we  thanked 
him  and  were  turning  away,  he  put  a  detaining  hand 
on  the  Lawyer's  arm. 

"Dzfes  done"  he  demanded  anxiously.  "Is  it 
true  that  the  Boches  have  already  cut  off  the  road  to 
Orleans?  Do  you  think  it  safe  to  go  through? 
Had  we  not  better  go  to  Pithiviers  from  Etampes, 
and  try  to  get  to  Auxerre?" 

192 


THE  FROUSSARDS 

The  chauffeur  saved  us  an  answer.  "I  'm  going 
to  Orleans,"  he  announced  briefly,  and  started  the 
machine.  The  girls  giggled  again.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  the  Papa  was  the  only  froussard.  There 
were  no  shades  of  horse-meat  in  1870  to  bother  the 
girls. 

Others  were  coming  along.  But  it  was  dinner- 
time. We  had  seen  enough.  We  walked  down  the 
Avenue  d' Orleans  and  the  Avenue  du  Maine,  in  the 
midst  of  a  perfectly  normal  evening  Paris  crowd, 
who  were  buying  from  the  pushcarts  with  their  flar- 
ing lamps  and  from  the  outside  rayons  of  the  shops. 
The  bell  of  a  moving-picture  show  was  ringing  per- 
sistently, and  a  "barker"  was  assuring  the  passers-by 
that  they  would  remember  this  evening's  films  for 
a  lifetime.  "Latest  actualites  from  the  battle- 
front  !"  he  cried  persuasively.  No  sign  anywhere  of 
anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 

It  is  the  salvation  of  Paris,  of  France,  of  the 
world,  that  most  people  do  not  cross  bridges  until 
they  come  to  them.  "Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof." 


193 


XXI 

PARIS    PREPARES   TO   RECEIVE  THE    GERMANS 

September  sixth. 

NOW  that  we  have  got  rid  of  our  pessimists  and 
the  wealthy  panicky  element,  the  spirit  of 
uneasiness  and  of  unrest  has  left  Paris.  It  would 
seem  as  if  we  had  been  exorcised,  and  the  devil  hav- 
ing been  cast  out,  we  find  ourselves  calm  and  peace- 
ful and  clothed  in  our  right  minds.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  the  fact  that  the  Government  and  some  of 
our  newspapers  have  gone  to  Bordeaux,  that  the 
Bank  of  France  and  the  other  great  establishments 
of  credit  have  taken  their  gold  and  fled,  that  our 
armies  have  been  thrown  back  in  confusion  to  Chan- 
tilly,  and  that  we  may  at  any  minute  hear  the  Ger- 
man cannon  renewing  the  tragic  and  humiliating 
days  of  1870.  We  are  quite  accustomed,  also,  to 
daily  visits  of  the  German  aeroplanes. 

The  soul  of  Paris  presents  a  most  interesting  study 
to  the  psychologist.  On  the  surface  there  is  all  the 
effervescence,  the  excitability,  the  fickleness,  the 
changeableness,  and  the  mad  rush  after  pleasures. 

194 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

The  tourist  sees,  and  the  general  reader  hears,  only 
of  this  side  of  Paris.  This  is  natural,  because  it  is 
the  side  in  evidence.  But  the  more  one  lives  among 
Parisians,  the  more  one  sees  that  underneath  this  ex- 
terior, which  attracts  and  disgusts  as  well,  there  is 
a  solid  substructure  of  purity,  of  industry,  and  of 
devotion  to  higher  ideals.  This  comes  out  in  the 
hour  of  trial. 

Never,  in  our  generation,  has  Paris  been  put  to  the 
test  that  it  faces  to-day.  Deep  disappointment  has 
followed  several  weeks  of  exultation.  A  week  of 
uncertainty  is  now  followed  by  the  knowledge  that 
overwhelming  disasters  have  attended  every  effort  of 
the  Allies  to  check  the  German  advance.  In  spite 
of  this,  and  in  spite  of  the  suffering  and  anxiety 
from  which  not  a  single  French  family  is  free,  Paris, 
the  supposedly  excitable,  fickle  and  careless,  is  show- 
ing to  the  world  a  coolness  and  a  sang-froid  that  no 
other  city  could  surpass. 

This  morning  I  woke  with  a  start,  and  jumped  out 
of  bed.  A  heavy  rumble,  quite  different  from  that 
of  a  tram  going  up  the  hill  on  the  Boulevard  St. 
Michel  or  of  a  train  in  the  Sceaux-Robinson  subway, 
made  me  tingle  with  excitement. 

"The  German  cannon  at  last!"  I  exclaimed  as  I 
hurried  into  my  clothes.  "The  great  days  are  be- 
ginning." 

But  I  had  forgotten  to  look  out  of  the  window. 
195 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  fig-trees  in  my  little  garden  were  passing  on 
raindrops  to  the  ground,  scattering,  fitful  raindrops, 
but  large  ones.  In  my  little  patch  of  sky  above,  I 
could  see  the  clouds  marshaling  for  an  assault. 
Thunder  !  I  had  been  deceived.  What  you  are  ex- 
pecting, you  see,  you  hear,  you  feel,  you  taste.  The 
senses  are  deceivers,  slaves  of  the  brain  rather  than 
its  masters. 

I  dressed  more  slowly  after  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  what  the  rumble  really  was. 

But  the  old  idea  kept  coming  back.  Perhaps  it  was 
both  thunder  and  cannon.  /  -wanted  it  to  be  both! 
A  hot  flush  of  shame  and  confusion  came  over  me 
when  I  made  this  confession  to  myself.  Who  wants 
to  see  the  Germans  beaten  more  than  I  do"?  And 
yet,  I  would  like  them  to  come  within  sight  of  the 
goal,  and  then  lose  out.  So  much  greater  the  pun- 
ishment for  the  covetousness  that  prompted  the 
crime.  That  is  the  excuse.  Is  it  the  real  reason  of 
my  secret  wish"? 

As  I  went  to  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  du  Pantheon 
for  my  morning  coffee,  the  Druggist,  whose  three 
sons  are  at  the  front,  hailed  me. 

"Did  it  fool  you,  too4?"  he  asked. 


"That  unusually  deep  thunder." 
"Yes,  it  did." 

"I  was  disappointed  when  I  found  I  was  wrong," 
196 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

declared  the  Druggist.  "If  only  we  could  have  had 
the  satisfaction  of  beating  them  right  here !" 

I  felt  better.  Was  the  Druggist  more  honest, 
though,  in  his  reason  than  I"?  The  craving  for  ex- 
citement, the  love  of  being  in  a  tight  place,  is  innate. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  child  chuckling  with  the  fear  of 
his  delight,  afraid  of  the  dancing  bear  and  yet  ir- 
resistibly drawn  towards  it;  putting  his  hand  a  sec- 
ond time  on  the  stove;  crying  with  disappointment 
when  the  big  dog  from  whose  bark  he  shrank  ran 
away  without  coming  near;  continuing  to  tease  an 
older  child  although  fully  aware  of  the  rising  in- 
dignation that  would  bring  upon  him  condign  pun- 
ishment? Some  childish  traits  we  do  not  outgrow. 
At  least  I  do  not.  Nor  does  the  Druggist. 

While  I  am  deciding  whether  my  glass  of  coffee 
needs  a  second  lump  of  sugar,  two  artists  come  up, 
bubbling  over  with  the  story  of  how  they  were  paint- 
ing in  the  Valley  of  the  Ourcq  when  the  Germans  ap- 
peared. They  were  among  the  refugees  who  ar- 
rived in  Paris  while  the  froussards  were  leaving  it. 

"Have  you  been  out  to  the  fortifications  to  see 
what  they  are  doing  against  the  coming  of  the  Ger- 
mans?" asked  the  Artist  with  the  Vandyke  beard. 

"A  man  in  my  line  has  to  work  daylight  hours  to 
earn  a  living  and  hasn't  time  like  you  painters  to 
go  gallivanting — " 

The  Artist  with  the  full-moon  face,  who  has  no 
197 


PARIS  REBORN 

more  hair  on  the  top  of  his  head  than  he  has  on  the 
front  of  it,  broke  in. 

"You  ought  to  go,"  he  said  succinctly. 

After  lunch,  I  thought  of  taking  a  nap.  Sunday 
afternoon  is  the  one  blessed  time  for  that.  But  the 
words  of  the  Artist  with  the  full-moon  face  came 
back  to  me.  "You  ought  to  go,"  he  had  said.  I 
felt  certain  that  there  was  little  to  be  seen:  for  I 
had  waved  aside  the  stories  I  had  been  hearing  for 
several  days  of  cutting  down  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
and  of  blowing  up  houses.  Nor  could  I  figure  out 
just  what  good  a  system  of  defense  at  the  inner 
fortifications  would  do.  And  the  nervousness  about 
spies  made  me  feel  that  an  attempt  to  survey  the 
outer  fortifications  was  not  just  the  restful  Sunday 
afternoon  occupation  I  wanted  after  a  hard  week's 
work. 

Versailles !  The  inspiration  suddenly  came  to  me 
that  the  Dentist  was  at  Versailles,  mobilized  for 
Red  Cross  service,  I  had  heard.  Versailles  it  would 
be.  I  might  see  more  there  than  at  St.  Cloud  or  St. 
Germain-en-Laye  and  I  should  have  a  valid  excuse 
for  wandering  into  forbidden  precincts.  I  tried  the 
Gare  du  Montparnasse :  no  trains.  Then  I  went  to 
the  Gare  des  Invalides :  no  trains.  So  I  thought  of 
the  tram  from  the  Louvre.  Five  minutes  in  a  taxi, 
and  I  was  there. 

One  minute  at  the  end  of  the  tramway  line  suf- 
198 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

ficed  to  destroy  my  hopes  of  getting  out  of  the  city 
Versailles-ward  to-day.  There  were  at  least  a  thou- 
sand waiting  in  a  line  that  extended  to  the  Pont 
Neuf  —  not  a  thousand  serious-minded  investigators, 
but  a  thousand  gay,  laughing,  Sunday-attired 


Parisians.  The  men  were  mostly  grandpas  or  boys, 
but  the  women  were  of  all  ages  from  seven  months 
to  seventy.  They  had  baskets  and  boxes  for  the 
Sunday  evening  meal,  and  I  heard  numerous  ex- 
pressions of  hope  that  they  would  get  near  enough 
^  __  to  h^ar  the  Boches,  if  not  to  see  them. 

"Just  think,"  exclaimed  one  Parisienne  in  her 
twenties,  the  size  of  whose  three  girls  showed  that 
she  must  have  married  very  young;  "we  may  see  the 
Uhlans  coming  in,  and  my  children  will  never  forget 
that  as  long  as  they  live." 

I  took  the  Metro  to  Porte  Maillot,  with  the 
thought  of  St.  Germain-en-Laye.  In  front  of  Luna 
Park,  there  was  another  crowd  of  the  same  hopeless 
length,  en  queue  for  the  St.  Germain  tramway. 
No  hope  here. 

As  I  turned  away,  I  collided  with  the  Archaeolo- 
gist. What  luck!  The  last  time  I  had  seen  him, 
he  was  showing  me  the  walls  of  Jericho  that  had  not 
been  thrown  down  at  the  blasts  of  trumpets.  He 
had  unearthed  them.  There  they  were.  The  Bible 
was  wrong.  Through  years  I  have  remembered  the 
look  of  disgust  on  his  face,  as  he  stood  on  the  hot 

199 


PARIS  REBORN 

plain  of  the  Jordan,  running  a  handkerchief  over 
his  forehead,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  de- 
spair at  the  stupidity  of  one  whose  faith  could  not 
be  shaken. 

"You  here  in  Paris !"  he  exclaimed.  "Where  are 
your  Turkish  friends'?" 

"You  here  in  Paris !"  I  echoed.  "Where  are  your 
Austrian  friends'?  I  should  think  you  had  lived 
and  dug  with  them  long  enough  to  have  become 
Viennese  by  now." 

"For  coffee's  sake,  I  would  be  Viennese  until 
death,"  he  answered.  "Not  in  Jericho,  you  under- 
stand, but  on  the  Graben.  But  Paris  is  the  old  love, 
even  if  Marguery  is  dead,  and  Voisin's  menu  with- 
out prices  is  far  more  dangerous  than  it  used  to  be. 
I  was  having  some  plates  for  my  new  book  made 
here  when  the  war  broke  out,  and  I  have  stopped 
on,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  do  Red  Cross  field  work. 
They  don't  seem  to  want  me,  in  spite  of  my  M.D., 
which  I  have  resuscitated  out  of  the  past.  So  I  am 
waiting,  just  as  Paris  is  waiting.  How  long,  and 
for  what,  I  do  not  know." 

The  Archaeologist  had  also  in  mind  St.  Germain- 
en-Laye.  We  spent  half  an  hour  wandering  around 
Neuilly  to  find  a  taxi  for  the  trip.  Three  chauffeurs 
would  not  go — at  our  terms.  So  we  decided  to  do 
the  inner  fortifications  on  foot. 

Right  at  the  Porte  Maillot,  before  our  eyes,  we 
200 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

saw  the  elaborate  preparations  that  we  found  after- 
wards to  be  practically  the  same  at  other  gates.  I 
suppose  the  same  work  has  been  done  at  all  the 
fifty-eight.  The  gate  is  closed  and  boarded  up. 
Little  holes  for  inspection  and  rifle  barrels  have  been 
cut  every  few  inches.  Outside  the  gate  ditches  have 
been  dug  for  a  distance  of  a  hundred  feet  zigzag 
across  the  road.  In  the  intervening  spaces  rows  of 
iron  X  spikes,  whose  presence  is  concealed  by 
branches  of  trees,  form  another  barrier.  On  the 
sides  of  the  road  trees,  cut  down  whole,  have  been 
placed  ready  to  be  thrown  across  the  road  at  the 
moment  of  alarm.  In  the  mounds  of  dirt  formed  by 
the  excavations  from  each  trench  and  the  displaced 
paving  stones,  posts  have  been  planted.  These  are 
connected  by  a  tangle  of  barbed  wire. 

We  walked  along  the  fortifications  through  the 
Bois  to  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
de  Boulogne.  The  trees  that  had  grown  up  in  pro- 
fusion over  the  talus  have  been  cut  down.  At  every 
angle,  bags  of  cement  are  piled  up  to  shelter  the 
pickets.  On  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  we 
found  a  taxi  that  took  us  around  the  fortifications  as 
far  as  the  Porte  d'Orleans. 

At  the  Porte  d'Orleans  several  stone  houses  oppo- 
site the  gate  have  been  blown  up  to  prevent  their 
possible  use  as  a  shelter  for  the  enemy's  sharpshoot- 
ers and  machine-guns.  The  little  ticket  office  and 

201 


PARIS  REBORN 

waiting-room  for  the  Bourg-la-Reine  steam  tram- 
way, that  used  to  stand  hard  under  the  bastion  wall 
at  the  left  of  the  gate,  has  been  demolished.  The 
windows  of  the  octroi  bureau  are  bricked  up. 
Barbed  wire  is  lavished  on  the  water-main  that 
makes  an  unintentional  bridge  across  the  moat  not 
far  from  the  Porte  d'Orleans  toward  Gentilly,  and 
a  solid  wall  of  masonry  is  being  built  where  the  main 
reaches  the  fortifications.  Meurtrieres  are  being 
left  in  this  wall.  On  either  side  of  the  gate  itself, 
bags  of  cement  give  a  crenelated  form  to  the  top  of 
the  talus. 

We  walked  around  at  will,  poking  our  canes  into 
the  foliage  that  concealed  the  X  spikes,  discussing 
the  efficiency  of  the  cross-fire  that  could  be  directed 
from  the  top  of  the  fortifications,  and  then  followed 
the  holiday  crowd  up  to  the  very  bags  of  cement  be- 
hind which  our  soldiers  are  to  shield  themselves.  A 
good-natured  policeman  shooed  us  away.  We 
walked  a  hundred  feet  farther  along,  and  climbed  up 
behind  the  policeman's  back.  He  was  merely  "keep- 
ing the  crowd  moving."  When  he  went  to  one  spot, 
the  crowd  was  entering  the  forbidden  zone  at  the 
place  he  had  just  abandoned. 

"Like  all  policemen  the  world  over,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"No,"  said  the  Archseologist.  "Leave  out  Ger- 
many. Fancy  if  this  were  Berlin  preparing  for  a 

202 


At  the  fortifications.     A  tangle  of  barbed  wire 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

siege.  Do  you  suppose  a  couple  of  foreigners  like 
you  and  me,  and  all  this  holiday  crowd,  would  be  al- 
lowed to  inspect  the  defenses  this  way?  If  we  per- 
sisted, after  we  had  been  warned  off,  we  should  find 
ourselves  at  the  Hauptquartier  and  in  a  very  un- 
pleasant pickle.  A  German  crowd  would  know  bet- 
ter than  to  try  to  climb  up  this  slope  to  these  de- 
fenses. It  would  never  enter  their  heads!" 

"A  quoi  bon?  A  quoi  bon?"  a  huge  grandfather, 
who  might  have  been  a  piano-mover  in  earlier  days, 
was  muttering  near  us.  He  hit  the  cement  bags  with 
his  stick,  and  then  turned  his  palms  heavenward  in 
an  eloquent  gesture  of  contempt.  This  is  the  Pari- 
sion  way.  Be  skeptical,  but  never  unpleasantly  skep- 
tical. The  grandfather  was  not  scowling  when  he 
spoke.  He  was  smiling.  As  he  went  away,  he 
stooped  to  picked  some  dandelions. 

"  Evidently,"  said  the  Archseologist,  "the  authori- 
ties are  going  to  take  no  chances.  They  know  as  well 
as  our  citoyen  there  that  these  defenses  have  n't  the 
ghost  of  a  show  against  artillery,  but  they  have 
studied  to  advantage  what  has  been  happening  in 
Belgium,  what  probably  is  happening  now  in  our 
own  northern  cities.  These  defenses  are  against 
automobiles  blindes  and  Uhlans.  A  sudden  dash 
through  a  city  gate,  a  few  soldiers  once  inside — what 
could  the  two  millions  of  Paris  do?  If  they  killed 
the  soldiers,  the  Germans  would  claim  that  the  civil- 

205 


PARIS  REBORN 

ian  population  had  fired  upon  their  troops.  That 
would  give  them  all  the  excuse  they  needed  to  bom- 
bard the  city.  I  find  the  preparations  very  sensible. 
Lucky  for  Paris  that  she  has  these  old  fortifications." 

I  agreed  heartily  with  the  Archaeologist.  There 
is  some  good  in  these  elaborate  preparations  at  the 
gates  of  the  city,  and  I  see  how,  in  a  totally  different 
way  from  their  original  intention,  the  deep  moat  and 
walls  are  a  blessing  to  the  city.  For  they  make  us 
secure  against  German  trickery. 

Only  two  months  ago  I  was  writing  an  article  in 
warm  commendation  of  a  scheme  presented  to  the 
Municipal  Council  to  do  away  with  these  obsolete 
fortifications  in  order  that  a  boulevard  encircling  the 
city  might  be  constructed  in  their  place.  "These 
ditches  and  stone  walls  are  laughable,"  the  Paris 
architects  maintained.  "They  have  absolutely  no 
military  value,  and  the  space  they  take,  together  with 
the  zone  beyond  them  to  which  our  military  law  for- 
bids the  granting  of  free  title,  deprives  Paris  of  hun- 
dreds of  acres  of  valuable  land.  We  shall  tear  down 
the  walls  and  fill  in  the  moat,  and  use  the  space  for 
a  boulevard  and  for  cheap  dwellings  for  working- 
men."  "Amen !"  all  Paris  cried.  Some  such  simi- 
lar agitation  among  architects  has  been  going  on  for 
years  about  the  Eiffel  Tower.  But  to-day  we  say, 
"God  bless  the  old  landmarks:  they  are  still  our  bul- 
wark and  our  defense." 

206 


PARIS  PREPARES  TO  RECEIVE  THE  GERMANS 

I  mentioned  the  architects  and  the  Eiffel  Tower 
to  the  Archaeologist,  and  that  put  it  into  our  heads 
to  go  over  to  the  Trocadero  to  see  if  by  any  chance 
the  Tauben  would  be  resuming  their  evening  visit  at 
six  o'clock. 

When  we  got  there  we  saw  that  thousands  of  oth- 
ers had  thought  of  the  same  thing.  The  quays  on 
either  side  of  the  river,  the  Pont  d'lena,  and  espe- 
cially the  garden  of  the  Trocadero,  the  best  vantage 
point — everywhere  Paris  endimanchee  was  in  evi- 
dence, Paris  chattering  and  laughing,  Paris  search- 
ing the  heavens.  Enterprising  boys,  with  opera 
glasses  to  rent,  reaped  a  rich  harvest.  Half  a  dozen 
French  aeroplanes  were  making  circles  around  the 
Tower.  We  could  not  deceive  ourselves  into  be- 
lieving that  they  might  possibly  be  les  Boches. 

We  waited  an  hour,  ever  hopeful,  ever  watching 
for  specks  on  the  horizon  that  might  grow  larger 
until  they  took  the  form  of  shining  Tauben.  All 
around  us  were  expressions  of  disgust.  Up  to  the 
approach  of  dinner-hour  and  darkness,  there  was  still 
the  ardent  hope,  "Pourvu  qu'ils  viennent!"  If  they 
would  only  come ! 

This  is  how  Bernhardi's  policy  of  "frightfulness" 
has  affected  Paris. 


207 


XXII 

WAITING 

September  eighth. 

I  HAVE  never  seen  the  garden  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg Palace  so  lovely  as  it  is  to-day.  August 
was  hot:  so  the  cultivated  wild  flowers  around  the 
walls  of  the  Palais  du  Senat  are  a  riot  of  color. 
Fountains  are  playing,  and  gardeners  are  turning 
over  the  earth  with  their  trowels  and  tenderly  prun- 
ing rebel  branches. 

I  am  sitting  near  the  waffle-kiosk,  trying  to  read 
between  the  lines  of  the  niggardly  news  dished  up  to 
us  in  the  morning  papers.  The  wind  is  blowing 
from  the  east,  and  I  fancy  that  I  hear  the  rumble  of 
distant  cannon.  The  big  battle  is  being  fought  out 
there  twenty-five  miles  away  to  decide  the  destiny  of 
the  city.  Is  it  not  also  the  destiny  of  the  world  that 
is  at  stake? 

How  beautiful,  how  inspiring,  how  soothing,  is 
this  brilliant  revelation  of  nature,  a  few  feet  from 
those  asphalted  streets,  canons  of  man's  making, 
where  trees  seem  exotic  and  the  sky  is  doled  out  to 

208 


WAITING 

the  city-bred  in  patches!  It  seems  incredible,  the 
distant  coups  de  canon.,  punctuating  the  sentences  as 
I  read,  and  forming  a  sinister  background  to  the 
merry  cries  of  children  rolling  hoops,  sailing  boats 
and  playing  cache-cache.  For  the  load  of  anxiety, 
the  terrible  dread  never  absent  these  days,  does  not 
prevent  the  mothers  from  bringing  their  children  to 
play  while  the  fathers  are  facing  death  out  there  in 
the  distance  where  the  cannon  are  booming. 

This  is  the  patriotism  that  counts,  the  faith  that 
enables  our  soldiers  to  hold  the  enemy  in  check  to- 
day, that  will  enable  them  to  conquer  him  to-mor- 
row. If  these  splendid  mothers  had  taken  their 
children  and  fled,  if  all  Paris  had  followed  the  pam- 
pered, the  idle,  the  empty-headed,  the  "despairers 
of  the  Republic"  on  the  road  to  Marseilles,  to  Bor- 
deaux, to  Havre,  the  city  would  be  an  empty  shell,  an 
anticipatory  reproach  to,  and  confession  of  lack  of 
belief  in,  the  armies  that  had  not  yet  made  the  su- 
preme stand. 

"Where  your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be 
also."  Here  are  the  treasures,  these  wives,  these 
children,  these  babies,  who  knit  and  play  and  babble. 
They  are  not  afraid.  The  fathers  are  out  there,  and 
the  grown  sons  are  out  there.  The  women  hold  the 
fort  here.  And,  because  there  is  knowledge  that 
the  fort  is  being  held  in  perfect  loyalty  and  trust, 
ordinary  men,  not  soldiers  by  profession  but  citizens 

209 


PARIS  REBORN 

of  the  state,  are  fighting  like  lions  with  a  superhu- 
man strength  to  justify  the  faith  of  which  they  are 
the  object.  Can  this  fail  to  bring  victory^ 

I  hear  the  children  playing  soldiers.  "Papa  Jof- 
fre,"  they  say.  Papa  JofTre — there  is  the  secret  of 
the  absence  of  fear.  The  French  army  is  part  of  the 
great  family,  the  stronger  part  defending  the  weaker 
part.  "Oncle  French,"  they  say.  Uncle  French — 
the  British  army  are  the  parents,  the  cousins,  helping 
to  defend  the  family. 

A  newspaper  man  tried  to  get  me  to  go  to  Meaux 
this  morning.  But  I  have  seen  enough  of  carnage 
to  be  cured  of  curiosity,  and  enough  of  military  op- 
erations to  know  that  what  I  might  hit  upon  by 
chance  would  give  me  no  clue  to  the  ensemble,  and 
be  of  no  benefit  to  me  or  to  my  readers. 

I  am  getting  more  light  into  the  secret  of  the 
French  resistance,  and  more  boldness  to  prophesy 
success,  in  the  Luxembourg  than  I  would  get  in  dodg- 
ing and  trying  to  fool  sentinels  on  the  road  to 
Meaux. 

September  ninth^  10  a.  m. 

The  news  from  the  line  of  battle  to-day  is  more 
encouraging  than  at  any  time  since  last  Sunday. 
The  allied  armies  seem  to  be  not  only  holding  their 
own,  but  driving  back  the  Germans  over  the  Marne. 
However,  preparations  are  still  being  made  for  a 

210 


WAITING 

possible  siege  of  the  city.  The  number  of  the  Ger- 
man forces  is  not  unknown,  and  it  may  be  that,  in 
spite  of  their  heroic  efforts,  the  Allies  will  once  more 
have  to  fall  back  before  superior  numbers. 

We  received  this  evening  the  result  of  the  census 
that  has  just  been  taken.  Over  two  million  people 
are  still  within  the  fortified  camp  of  Paris,  which 
includes  the  nearer  suburbs.  As  the  census  of  last 
year  reported  a  population  of  nearly  two  million 
nine  hundred  thousand  in  the  same  area,  this  shows 
that  some  eight  hundred  thousand  are  away  from 
their  homes.  The  deficit  of  population  is  almost 
wholly  due  to  the  war.  About  half  a  million  Paris- 
ians are  generally  out  of  the  city  during  the  sum- 
mer months,  but  this  is  offset  largely  by  the  refugees 
from  Belgium  and  the  invaded  departments,  and  by 
the  moving  in  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  outer  sub- 
urbs. If  we  take  into  consideration  the  fact  that 
two  hundred  thousand  Parisians  have  been  mo- 
bilized, it  is  probable  that  not  more  than  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  fled  from  Paris.1  These  are  for 
the  most  part  of  the  wealthy  class,  but  there  have 
also  been  many  destitute  working  people,  originally 
from  the  provinces,  who  have  been  repatriated  by 
their  regional  associations. 

1 1  found  out  subsequently  that  I  had  been  wrong  in  my  calcula- 
tions here.  Over  four  hundred  thousand  left  Paris  between  Au- 
gust soth  and  September  9th. 

211 


PARIS  REBORN 

If  the  Germans  besiege  Paris,  we  have  sufficient 
food  supplies  to  last  us  for  many  months,  before  we 
need  to  take  a  census  of  the  horses  and  dogs  and  cats 
and  rats.  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  city  in  the  world 
more  abundantly  provisioned  than  is  Paris  to-day. 
Not  only  are  the  great  warehouses  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  dry  groceries  and  canned-goods,  but  the 
Government  has  taken  special  pains  to  see  that  there 
is  fresh  meat  and  fresh  milk  for  invalids  and  child- 
ren. The  Bois  de  Boulogne  is  full  of  cattle.  The 
city  has  organized  a  brigade  of  dairy  workers. 
Every  invalid  and  baby  in  this  great  city  has  been 
registered.  More  than  that,  late  summer  and  au- 
tumn vegetables  are  being  planted  in  the  vacant 
spaces  within  the  line  of  the  forts. 

We  are  beginning  to  have  a  gleam  of  hope  to-day 
that  the  Germans  will  not  be  able  to  come,  and  that 
the  cannonade  from  the  direction  of  Meaux  is  all 
that  we  shall  hear  of  actual  fighting.  Perhaps  we 
are  wrong!  But  we  are  prepared  for  the  worst. 

September  ninth,  10  p.  m. 

Is  it  the  thunder  showers  and  the  gloomy  skies,  or 
the  sickening  anxiety  over  the  fate  of  our  army  in 
the  battle  that  is  still  raging  near  Paris'?  A  sudden 
change  has  come  over  the  soul  of  this  great  city. 
This  morning  it  was  sunshine  and  smiles :  this  even- 
ing it  is  the  deepest  sort  of  gloom.  We  see  no  more 

212 


WAITING 

soldiers.  Even  the  few  regiments  which  guarded 
the  public  buildings  and  the  famous  Garde  Repub- 
licaine,  pride  of  Paris,  have  disappeared.1 

The  distant  cannonade  seems  to  have  ceased.  But 
a  nearer  and  louder  boom  tells  us  that  they  are  dyna- 
miting the  houses  near  the  forts,  and  that  the  final 
arrangements  are  being  made  to  receive  the  Germans, 
should  they  come.  Should  they  come.  There 's 
the  rub !  It  is  not  the  fact  of  victory  or  defeat  which 
wears,  it  is  not  the  test  of  life  or  death,  it  is  the  un- 
certainty that  wears  upon  Parisian  nerves. 

"Give  us  some  news — anything  but  the  same  old 
story  of  the  Russians  marching  on  Berlin,  and  the 
panic  and  high  price  of  food  in  Vienna!"  is  the 
cry  of  Paris  waiting.  We  do  not  know  whether 
to  hope  or  despair;  but  we  want  to  do  one  or  the 
other. 

There  have  been  three  ominous  signs  to-day,  if 
we  have  to  judge  by  signs.  The  public  schools, 
which  were  reopened,  have  been  closed  again.  The 
train  service  in  all  directions  has  been  temporarily 
suspended  "to  allow  the  military  government  to  keep 
in  touch  with  the  outer  forts."  The  police  have 
come  to  take  a  census  of  the  provisions  we  have  in 
store. 

The  spirit  is  not  worry.     Paris  is  incapable  of  that 

1 1  was  mistaken  here.    The  Garde  Republicaine  did  not  leave, 
and  the  22d  Infantry  Regiment  was  still  in  the  city. 

213 


PARIS  REBORN 

sensation.  Nor  is  it  fear.  The  frightened  have  al- 
ready left.  It  might  rather  be  called  sulkiness,  this 
spirit  which  makes  so  unnaturally  for  gloom.  I 
say  unnaturally,  for  gloom  and  Paris  are  words  that 
do  not  go  together.  But  what  can  we  expect  when 
the  Government  has  run  away  and  left  us,  when  our 
best  newspapers  have  gone  to  Bordeaux,  when  our 
streets  are  not  lighted  brilliantly  of  an  evening,  when 
we  cannot  sit  down  in  front  of  a  cafe  for  our  after- 
dinner  coffee"?  No  music  or  theaters  since  the  war 
began,  no  open-air  life,  no  drives  in  the  Bois,  no 
business,  no  money,  no  news,  no  more  German  aero- 
planes even  to  break  the  monotony ! 

One  really  feels  now  that  there  would  be  bitter 
disappointment  and  disgust  if  the  Germans  did  not 
try  after  all  to  come  to  Paris.  For  we  have  suffered 
much  inconvenience  on  account  of  them.  To  be 
without  diversion  is  the  acme  of  suffering  for  Paris. 
And,  now  that  we  have  prepared  our  minds  for  an 
attack,  and  have  made  every  preparation  to  give  the 
Germans  a  warm  reception  at  our  forts,  even  at  the 
inner  obsolete  fortifications,  if  it  has  been  for  noth- 
ing we  shall  feel  like  the  hostess  who  prepares  an 
elaborate  meal  and  waits  in  vain  for  her  guests. 

September  tenth. 

I  have  never  had  the  good  fortune  to  come  across 
charming  ladies  taking  an  afternoon  sunbath  under 

214 


WAITING 

birch  trees  on  a  grassy  and  flowered  couch.  But  I 
know  a  man  who  has.  Else  how  could  he  have  put 
on  canvas  the  contrasts  of  flesh  and  sunlight  and 
shadow  spots  that  have  brought  him  fame,  if  not 
yet  fortune*?  I  had  heard  that  he  was  in  town,  and 
was  going  to  see  him  this  afternoon  to  talk  things 
over.  For  he  is  interested  in  more  than  his  paints 
and  brushes,  and  I  find  his  comments  on  Parisian 
character  as  keenly  analytical  as  they  are  delightfully 
appreciative. 

On  the  Boulevard  Raspail,  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  du  Cherche  Midi,  they  are  building  a  new 
apartment  house.  The  work  has  gone  on  steadily, 
day  after  day,  through  this  week  of  crisis.  There  is 
a  slender,  graceful  crane  (can  the  French  put  up  an 
ugly  thing,  even  when  it  is  a  question  of  a  utilitarian 
machine*?)  whose  mobile  arm  floats  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  over  the  lot  on  which  the  building  is  rising. 
The  huge  stones  are  lifted  from  the  ground  and  put 
in  place  as  easily  as  I  lift  my  baby  to  her  high  chair 
at  the  table.  This  operation  never  fails  to  fascinate 
passers-by.  I  always  stop,  for  I  am  as  interested 
in  the  budding  stories  of  that  apartment  house  as  is 
the  owner,  perhaps  more  so.  For  I  do  not  have  to  pay 
the  bills,  and  I  do  not  have  to  worry  over  whether 
the  completed  apartments  will  bring  in  the  exorbi- 
tant rentals  dreamed  of,  as  the  reward  of  courage  in 
diverting  money  to  a  venture  of  faith  that  might 

215 


PARIS  REBORN 

have  been  placed  in  the  new  issue  of  five  per  cent. 
Argentines,  six  per  cent,  waterworks-bonds  of  Seattle 
or  Saskatchewan,  or  that  attractive  Peruvian  rail- 
way, which  offers  the  chance  of  drawing  a  gros  lot  of 
five  hundred  thousand  francs. 

The  work  has  stopped  to-day — Thursday  half 
holiday — but  high  up  there  on  the  crane  in  the  little 
box  where  the  levers  are  manipulated,  I  see  a  man 
planting  a  row  of  geraniums.  The  red  flowers  are 
outlining  the  edge  of  the  wooden  box  against  the 
sky.  The  Germans  may  have  turned  away  at 
Meaux  for  good,  or  they  may  not.  But  the  flowers 
must  be  planted.  I  suppose  they  were  cheap  at  the 
market,  and  they  are  very  pretty.  A  shell  from  a 
German  "420"  may  bring  down  this  crane  next 
week;  God  only  knows  that.  To-day  the  crane  is 
there,  and  the  workman  will  be  happier  for  his  flow- 
ers. He  is  a  Parisian. 

The  painter  of  siesta-taking  ladies  has  gone  to  the 
Club.  I  shall  see  him  there  later.  In  the  mean- 
time, I  take  a  turn  through  the  Bon  Marche  and 
through  Sadla's  near-by,  at  the  corner  of  the  boule- 
vard and  the  Rue  de  Sevres.  These  are  reliable 
barometers  of  how  Paris  is  feeling  and  going  to  feel. 
The  aisles  of  the  Bon  Marche  show  plenty  of  buy- 
ers. At  Sadla's,  good  things  displayed  in  their  usual 
profusions,  dry  groceries  and  canned  goods,  fresh 
meats  and  vegetables,  fish  and  game,  cheese  and 

216 


WAITING 

pastry  make  me  look  at  my  watch  to  see  if  dinner 
hour  is  near. 

The  barometers  register  fair  weather.     No  storms 
for  Paris. 


217 


XXIII 

AFTER    THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    MARNE 

September  twelfth. 

THE  anxious  week  is  over. 
I  would  be  the  last  in  the  world  to  claim 
that  it  has  not  been  an  anxious  week.  The  Paris 
that  works,  and  that  stuck  bravely  to  its  work,  did 
not  lose  its  grip.  Nor  did  it  lose  its  original  tradi- 
tional lightheartedness.  But  the  lightheartedness  of 
Paris  is  not  indicative  of  the  feelings  that  lie  beneath 
the  surface.  To  be  good-humored,  to  be  cheerful, 
to  be  happy,  is  a  habit.  The  Parisian  is  incapable 
of  not  smiling,  of  not  feeling  that  the  world  is  good 
and  that  there  is,  in  spite  of  every  reason  to  think 
otherwise,  an  overflowing  joie  de  vivre. 

There  has  been  reasonable  ground  for  believing 
that  the  Germans  might  come  to  Paris,  and  that  the 
defense  of  the  city  would  have  been  impossible.  We 
knew  that  von  Kluck  had  passed  through  Compiegne, 
through  Creil,  and  through  Chantilly.  Then  we 
heard  the  cannon  at  Meaux. 

This  was  the  first  indication  that  something  had 
218 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 

gone  wrong  with  the  German  raid,  or  that  the  plan 
of  attacking  Paris  had  been  for  the  moment  given 
up.  Rumors  were  plentiful;  news  was  scarce. 
What  were  the  Germans  up  to?  We  could  only 
make  surmises :  we  knew  nothing. 

Last  night,  at  the  Closerie  des  Lilas,  I  dined  with 
the  Lawyer  and  the  Officer  of  Zouaves,  who  had 
been  wounded  at  Charleroi  and  was  impatiently 
waiting  for  the  order  to  rejoin  his  regiment.  The 
soup  was  excellent;  the  biftek  aux  fommes  done  to 
a  turn  and  no  more;  the  camembert  just  ready  to 
overflow  like  the  Seine  after  the  melting  of  the 
spring  snows  in  the  uplands;  and  the  pears  and 
peaches — oh,  what  a  summer  this  has  been  for  fruit ! 
To  be  eating  a  meal  like  this,  and  the  Germans  only 
thirty  kilometers  away — it  seemed  incredible.  But 
why  borrow  trouble*?  Siege  rations  begin  only 
when  the  siege  comes.  We  have  had  more  than 
enough  these  days,  thanks  to  the  frous sards  whose 
sudden  disappearance  since  the  beginning  of  the 
month  has  resulted  in  a  supply  greater  than  the  de- 
mand in  the  Halles  Centrales. 

The  Officer  of  Zouaves  insisted  upon  showing  his 
patriotism  in  a  less  convincing  manner  than  he  had 
done  at  Charleroi,  if  we  could  judge  from  the  elo- 
quent testimony  of  his  arm  in  splints  and  the  huge 
pieces  of  court  plaster  sticking  out  from  bandages 
which  covered  half  his  head.  He  raised  glass  after 

219 


PARIS  REBORN 

glass  to  the  health  of  General  Joffre  and  the  men 
who  had  ceased  retreating  and  were  making  the 
stand  on  the  Marne. 

"Why  did  von  Kluck  turn  aside  at  Chantilly4? 
Why  did  he  go  to  Meaux  instead  of  coming  in  to  St. 
Denis?  He  was  afraid.  He  is  a  big  bluff,  like  all 
the  Germans.  He  doesn't  know  what  he's  doing! 
But  Joffre  knows,  and  he  will  save  Paris,  God  bless 
him!" 

The  Officer  of  Zouaves  called  once  more  for 
the  g argon. 

The  Lawyer  has  been  my  daily  companion  at  the 
evening  meal  this  past  week.  We  have  no  longer 
our  Temps:  for  the  Temps,  too,  has  gone  to  Bor- 
deaux. So  newspapers  in  whose  dispatches  he  and 
I  have  faith,  are  lacking.  Consequently,  there  has 
been  little  for  us  to  "go  on"  in  talking  of  the  cam- 
paign, and  we  have  grown  tired  of  disagreeing  with 
each  other. 

Now  I  saw  the  old  gleam  of  combat  come  into  the 
Lawyer's  eyes.  He  raised  his  eyebrows,  dilated  the 
pupils  of  his  eyes,  and  wrinkled  his  nose  to  readjust 
his  eyeglasses.  This  is  the  habitual  gesture  that 
heralds  a  judicial  announcement. 

"God  bless  General  Joffre !  I  say  that  too.  And 
I  believe  that  he  has  the  situation  in  hand  and  knows 
what  he  is  doing.  He  left  Paris  undefended  be- 
cause he  knew  it  ought  not  to  be  defended.  But 

220 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 

von  Kluck  was  not  afraid  to  come  here.  Nor  was 
his  march  to  Chantilly  a  bluff.  He  could  not  come, 
because  there  was  that  French  and  British  army  fall- 
ing back  towards  the  southeast,  standing  much  bet- 
ter between  Paris  and  the  Germans  than  if  it  had 
stupidly  fallen  back  upon  the  forts  of  the  city." 

"You  are  right,"  I  commented.  "General  von 
Kluck  could  have  come  to  Paris.  He  could  be  here 
with  his  army  at  this  very  minute,  and  we  know  well 
enough  that  nothing  would  have  stopped  him.  As 
you  say,  General  von  Kluck  knew  that  if  he  came, 
leaving  General  Joffre's  army  intact  in  the  field,  he 
would  have  been  caught  here  like  a  rat  in  a  trap." 

"That 's  understood !"  cried  the  Lawyer.  "But,  if 
it 's  understood,  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  he 
could  have  come*?" 

"I  mean  that  the  way  to  the  city  was  open  before 
him,  and  that  no  power  could  have  prevented  his 
entry  here  during  this  last  week." 

The  Lawyer  eyed  me  with  cold  disgust. 

"That's  the  way  you  've  got  it  in  your  head,  is  it? 
You  stand  on  the  balcony  of  your  apartment,  and 
look  down  into  the  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse. 
You  could  jump  off  into  the  boulevard  instead  of 
going  down  the  staircase.  You  could,  all  right,  all 
right." 

The  Officer  of  Zouaves,  who  claimed  to  have 
learned  English  once  in  Canada  but  had  forgotten 

221 


PARIS  REBORN 

all  of  it  as  far  as  I  could  ever  find  out,  looked  up 
with  a  gleam  of  intelligence.  He  knew  the  Law- 
yer's last  words  all  right. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  he  exclaimed.  "Let  us 
have  another  drink." 

Serious  conversation  was  no  longer  possible. 

This  afternoon,  as  the  Lawyer  and  I  always  try 
to  take  a  half  holiday  on  Saturdays,  we  planned  to 
go  out  of  the  city.  Neither  of  us  had  been  farther 
beyond  the  fortifications  than  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
since  the  war  started.  Firmly  opposing  for  once  the 
Lawyer's  bachelor  habit  of  keeping  in  a  rut,  I  led 
the  way  to  the  Bois  de  Vincennes. 

"I  am  tired  of  the  same  old  thing,"  I  remonstrated. 
"We  are  not  adventurous  youths  any  longer,  and  I 
am  not  thinking  of  the  battle-field.  But  at  least  we 
can  take  some  suburban  tramway  to  the  end  of  the 
line,  and  we  may  get  within  hearing  distance  of  the 
fighting.  No,  that  has  receded  now — at  least  we 
shall  be  nearer  things  than  sticking  in  the  city." 

Outside  the  Porte  de  St.  Mande,  we  found  a  train 
for  Champigny  that  took  us  through  the  Bois  de  Vin- 
cennes. We  passed  acres  of  cattle  pens.  Thou- 
sands of  cattle  and  thousands  of  bales  of  hay  were  in 
the  Bois  beyond  the  fort.  If  there  were  to  be  a 
siege,  fresh  milk  and  fresh  meat  had  been  provided 
for  us  by  the  military  authorities. 

At  Champigny,  scene  of  the  celebrated  battle  in 

222 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 

the  war  of  Soixante-Dix  and  of  the  annual  pilgrim- 
age of  Deroulede,  we  found  the  people  just  as  un- 
interesting as  they  always  are  in  these  little  towns 
on  the  outskirts  of  Greater  Paris. 

When  we  crossed  the  bridge  toward  the  railway 
station,  we  stopped  to  speak  to  the  octroi  man.  We 
asked  him  about  the  fighting,  concerning  which  infor- 
mation had  been  so  meager  in  Paris. 

"Cannon  heard  here?  Bien  sur,  very  plainly,  and 
only  fifteen  kilometers  away.  But  that  was  six  days 
ago.  You  ought  to  have  come  out  last  Sunday  after- 
noon. We  were  just  full  of  Parisians  then,  and  the 
rear  guard  posts  of  our  army  were  only  three  kilo- 
meters away.  They  were  n't  busy  looking  after  the 
Germans,  but  after  the  Parisians.  They  had  to  turn 
them  back  to  keep  them  from  trying  to  walk  out  to- 
wards the  battle.  La-la,  but  that  was  a  day !  Why 
didn't  you  come  then"?  We  were  expecting  the 
Uhlans  to  walk  in  any  minute,  and  this  bridge  on 
which  you  are  standing  would  have  gone  up  in  smoke 
at  the  first  alarm.  But  now  the  Germans  have  been 
pushed  back  over  the  Marne.  They  have  had  their 
chance,  and  could  n't  make  a  go  of  it.  That  I  am 
sure  of." 

We  felt  that  the  octroi  man  was  right.  Every 
slight  indication  that  had  come  to  us  through  the 
communiques  during  these  days  of  tension  pointed  to 
a  German  reverse,  to  an  irretrievable  check. 

223 


PARIS  REBORN 

At  the  railway  station  we  inquired  if  there  were 
a  train  back  to  Paris,  and  found  to  our  delight  that, 
while  the  suburban  service  was  not  running,  an  ex- 
press train  from  the  direction  of  Compiegne  was  ex- 
pected after  another  hour. 

It  was  a  cold,  chilly  afternoon,  and  we  welcomed 
the  thought  of  a  hot  drink  at  the  cafe  across  from 
the  station.  There  we  sat,  watching  train  after 
train  of  soldiers  pass,  and  trucks  loaded  with  can- 
non and  mud-bespattered  munition  wagons.  When 
the  train  stopped  at  the  station,  Red  Cross  girls  and 
Boy  Scouts  gave  the  soldiers  hot  coffee  and  sand- 
wiches. The  supply  seemed  unlimited. 

We  felt  victory  in  the  air.  Talk  about  telepathy ! 
The  Lawyer  and  I  were  just  bubbling  over  with  hap- 
piness. So  was  every  one  round  us.  Something 
good  had  happened  somewhere! 

While  we  waited,  a  train  from  Paris  passing  by 
dropped  bundles  of  the  afternoon  papers  with  the 
three  o'clock  communique.  Talk  about  your  crazy, 
frenzied  mobs.  I  had  never  been  in  anything  like 
it  since  the  Bowl-Rush  of  college  days. 

To  get  a  paper,  I  abandoned  my  change.  My 
eyes  sought  the  communique.  Joy  of  joys!  Like  a 
madman  I  ran  back  to  the  terrace,  where  the  Lawyer, 
wiser  than  I,  had  already  bought  a  Liberte  from  a 
camelot  that  had  not  tried  to  sell  to  the  crowd. 

//  was  Victory! 

224 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 

The  battle  of  the  Marne  was  over.  The  Germans 
were  in  full  retreat.  Paris  was  saved ! 

We  went  home  that  night  on  a  train  that  started 
from  Montdidier.  Most  of  the  compartments  were 
full  of  wounded  soldiers,  who  had  been  able  to  escape 
from  the  battlefield  near  Noyon,  and  found  this  train 
for  Paris.  They  had  not  yet  heard  the  result  of  the 
engagement  between  the  Maine  and  the  Ourcq.  In 
exchange  for  our  news,  they  brought  us  the  good  word 
that  the  Germans  had  been  checked  also  on  the  north, 
and  had  fallen  back  from  Amiens.  The  battle  was 
still  raging  less  than  two  kilometers  away  from  where 
this  train  started.  There  was  no  time-table.  The 
train  had  started  when  it  was  filled.  The  stop  at 
Champigny  was  from  habit,  luckily  for  us. 

At  the  Gare  du  Nord,  our  elation  suddenly  left 
us.  We  had  been  full  of  the  joy  of  victory.  Now 
we  came  face  to  face  with  its  cost.  In  our  compart- 
ment the  soldiers  were  only  slightly  wounded,  but 
from  other  compartments  in  the  same  train  inanimate 
forms  were  being  lifted.  Doctors,  nurses  and  order- 
lies were  so  few  that  the  unfortunates  had  to  be  laid 
out  upon  the  station  platform  to  wait  for  attention. 
Baggage  trucks  were  commandeered,  for  stretchers 
were  lacking.  The  cries  and  moans  that  had  been 
hushed  by  the  movement  of  the  train  were  now  audi- 
ble. Many  were  in  agony.  Others  must  have  come 
to  the  end  of  their  sufferings  while  we,  in  the  same 


PARIS  REBORN 

train,  were  joyously  laughing  and  talking  of  victory. 
Blankets,  hastily  pulled  from  knapsacks,  covered 
those  who  had  given  their  life  from  the  profane 
gaze  of  those  for  whom  the  life  had  been  given. 

We  went  to  Kepler's  in  the  Place  de  Clichy  for 
dinner.  The  salons  were  filled.  The  victory  of  the 
Marne  was  being  boisterously  celebrated  by  the  unfit 
who,  not  having  had  to  suffer,  were  oblivious  of  suf- 
fering. All  joy  is  born  of  pain.  Why  is  it  that 
those  who  experience  the  joy  are  not  always  those 
who  have  experienced  the  pain? 


226 


XXIV 

PARIS    AT    NOTRE    DAME 

September  thirteenth. 

THIS  afternoon,  at  the  Cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame,  Paris  prayed  for  the  welfare  of  France 
and  for  the  soldiers  engaged  in  the  great  battle  which 
is  still,  despite  the  German  retreat,  raging  near  the 
gates  of  the  capital.  It  has  been  a  wonderful  day  in 
the  history  of  France — the  reconciliation  of  the 
Church  and  State  after  many  years  of  bitter  con- 
flict. Cardinal  Amette,  Archbishop  of  Paris,  upon 
his  return  from  the  election  of  the  new  Pope,  issued 
an  appeal  to  the  clergy  and  people  of  Paris  "to  as- 
semble in  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  on  the  after- 
noon of  September  thirteenth  to  pray  for  the  safety 
of  France."  The  result  was  far  beyond  expecta- 
tion. 

When  I  read  the  notice  I  said  to  myself  that  I 
must  be  sure  to  get  there  a  full  hour  before  the  time 
set — three  o'clock.  But  as  all  Paris  seemed  to  be 
moving  towards  the  cathedral,  I  cut  short  my  lunch, 
and  reached  the  Parvis  a  little  after  one.  Never 
have  I  seen  such  a  gathering.  Worshipers  coming 

227 


PARIS  REBORN 

by  the  thousands  blocked  every  street.  The  cathe- 
dral, beyond  the  sea  of  human  heads,  seemed  very 
far  away.  It  took  me  half  an  hour  to  work  my  way 
forward  to  the  doors.  Arriving  at  the  iron  fence, 
I  found  the  gates  closed.  It  did  not  need  the  assur- 
ances of  the  police  on  guard  to  tell  me  that  there  was 
no  hope  of  entering.  Inside  the  gates,  under  the 
porches,  thousands  were  crowded.  The  three  mas- 
sive doors  were  wide  open.  But  those  so  near  were 
yet  as  far  away  as  myself. 

Long  experience  has  taught  me  that  when  the 
front  door  is  closed,  there  is  always  a  side  door,  and, 
failing  that,  a  back  door.  I  had  come  to  see  the 
ceremony.  It  took  twenty  minutes  to  work  my  way 
back  to  the  nearest  breathing-space,  by  the  statue  of 
Charlemagne.  Then  I  tried  for  the  side  door,  lead- 
ing into  the  yard  between  the  cathedral  and  the 
archeveche.  This  was  worse  than  the  front.  In- 
stead of  getting  forward,  I  was  gradually  pushed 
sidewise,  until  I  found  myself  seated  on  the  parapet 
of  the  quay,  looking  down  into  the  Seine,  and  wish- 
ing for  a  swim.  The  back  door  alone  remained. 

Around  by  the  side  of  the  archbishop's  residence 
is  an  iron  gate — servants'  entrance,  I  suppose.  Here 
there  were  few  people  for  the  moment,  and  those  that 
entered  were  priests  of  the  city,  who  had  been  quietly 
given  the  tip.  I  got  in  among  them,  but,  when  I 
reached  the  gate,  a  policeman  loomed  up  in  front  of 

228 


PARIS  AT  NOTRE  DAME 

me— or  rather,  I  loomed  up  in  front  of  a  policeman. 
For  I  am  not  small. 

"You,"  he  said,  in  a  tired  voice,  "are  the  seventy- 
fifth  thousandth  person  who  has,  since  noon,  thought 
of  this  dodge  and  compelled  me  to  be  rude.  Stand 
back,  please,  and  let  their  reverences  pass !" 

"Surely,"  I  responded,  "there  ought  to  be  a  pre- 
mium for  number  seventy-five  thousand  and  one. 
And  it  will  relieve  your  tired  feeling  to  pass  me  in — 
just  for  the  sake  of  a  change." 

"You  are  right,"  he  exclaimed,  letting  fall  the 
arm  that  barried  the  way.  "Go  in,  but  I  warn  you 
that,  once  inside,  you  are  still  far  from  the  cathe- 
dral." 

A  narrow  stone  staircase,  leading  from  the  court 
of  the  archeveche,  is  the  entrance  to  the  sacristy. 
Here,  to  my  astonishment,  among  the  priests  jostling 
each  other  in  an  effort  to  enter,  I  saw  several  hun- 
dred other  outsiders  like  myself.  Making  a  passage 
for  several  nuns  enabled  me  to  get  to  the  steps, 
where  a  soldier  of  the  Twenty-second  was  standing 
guard. 

"I  am  sorry  for  every  one  here,"  he  said  to  me. 
"I  would  let  all  in,  but  there  is  no  room;  the  ca- 
thedral is  full." 

"What  a  pity,"  I  answered.  "You  are  not  in  your 
first  year  in  the  Twenty-second,  are  you?" 

This  question  seemed  to  surprise  him.  For  there 
229 


PARIS  REBORN 

was  a  query  in  his  voice  when  he  admitted  that  his 
term  of  service  was  just  about  up. 

"It 's  such  a  shame,"  I  remarked,  "that  your  regi- 
ment should  not  be  at  the  front.  I  remember  last 
year  what  a  wonderful  showing  you  made  at  Long- 
champs  on  the  Quatorze.  Is  n't  it  tough  that  you 
have  to  be  here  keeping  order  in  Paris'?  Such  a  won- 
derful regiment  as  yours !" 

His  face  glowed  with  pride.  "So  you  noticed  our 
regiment  then?  We  did  do  credit  to  ourselves  in 
that  review.  If  you  wait,  I  '11  just  step  inside,  and 
see  if  there  is  one  more  place." 

So  I  got  into  Notre  Dame. 

From  the  sacristy  door  to  the  choir  there  was  an 
open  space,  preserved  with  difficulty  for  the  passage 
of  the  privileged  ones  admitted  to  the  choir.  Nat- 
urally, coming  from  the  sacristy,  I  was  privileged, 
was  I  not*?  I  reached  a  position  not  far  from  the 
altar,  where  I  could  look  straight  down  through  the 
choir  and  nave  to  the  open  doors.  As  far  as  the  eye 
reached,  up  to  the  prefecture  of  police  on  the  other 
side  of  the  great  square  in  front  of  the  cathedral,  the 
worshipers  were  massed.  If  ever  Notre  Dame  held 
more  people  in  all  its  centuries  of  history,  either  the 
cathedral  was  larger  or  men  were  smaller  in  other 
ages  than  in  our  own. 

On  his  throne  sat  Cardinal  Amette  in  brilliant  red 
robes.  The  stalls  were  filled  with  the  clergy  of 

230 


PARIS  AT  NOTRE  DAME 

Paris.  Hundreds  of  chairs,  placed  in  the  choir,  were 
occupied  by  high  officials  of  the  government  and  the 
city,  and  by  officers  and  soldiers  of  every  branch  of 
the  service.  Most  of  them  had  bandaged  arms  or 
heads.  Only  invalid  soldiers  had  time  to  pray  to- 
day. 

After  the  evening  service  had  been  sung,  the  great 
congregation  was  invited  by  the  cardinal  to  sing  the 
hymn,  "Sauvez  la  France !"  Far  out  into  the  place 
it  was  taken  up  by  a  hundred  thousand  throats. 
Priests  and  laymen  were  crying  all  around  me.  They 
were  not  ashamed  of  their  tears.  Nor  was  I  of  mine. 
There  was  something  sublime  in  that  cry,  "Sauvez  la 
France!" 

From  the  steps  of  the  choir,  standing  on  a  high 
dai's  erected  for  the  occasion,  Cardinal  Amette 
preached  a  simple,  earnest  sermon.  His  theme  was 
that  no  country  could  prosper  without  the  blessing 
of  God,  and  that  the  supplications  of  the  faithful 
were  absolutely  necessary  for  the  success  of  the 
armies  in  the  field.  He  ended  his  peroration  by  lift- 
ing his  arms,  and  crying,  "God  with  us!  Vive 
I'Eglise!  Vive  la  France!"  The  cry  was  taken  up, 
echoed  and  reechoed,  and  then  the  vast  audience 
burst  again  spontaneously  into  the  hymn,  "God  save 
France !" 

The  relics  and  treasures  of  Notre  Dame  and  of 
other  historic  churches  of  Paris  were  paraded  down 

231 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  nave,  out  through  the  crowd  on  the  place^  and 
back  to  the  choir.  Among  them  were  many  re- 
minders of  the  country's  history  and  traditions,  relics 
of  King  Clovis,  St.  Genevieve,  and  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
They  were  carried  by  soldiers,  and  followed  by  a 
number  of  guilds  with  their  banners.  During  the 
procession,  the  patron  saints  of  the  city  and  the  na- 
tion were  invoked.  Like  the  soughing  of  pines  came 
the  responses,  "Miserere  nobis"  and  "Ora  pro  nobis.'" 

It  was  six  o'clock  before  I  got  out  into  the  open 
air.  A  victory  was  being  cried  by  the  newsboys. 
"The  Germans  retreat!"  "General  Joffre  sends  a 
message  from  the  army!" 

But  there  was  no  exultation  among  the  departing 
worshipers.  For  news  of  success  could  not  brighten 
the  faces  of  those  who,  during  the  hours  of  prayer, 
had  been  thinking  of  loved  ones  out  on  the  battle- 
fields of  the  Marne.  Before  their  eyes  was  not  the 
victory,  but  the  price  that  had  been  paid.  How 
many  were  widows  and  orphans,  but  knew  it  not ! 


232 


XXV 

THE    CAFE    STRATEGISTS 

September  seventeenth. 

VIOLENT  newspaper  attacks  on  "les  embus- 
ques"  as  M.  Clemenceau  calls  the  hosts  of 
seemingly  able-bodied  men  who  are  not  at  the  front, 
have  made  thousands  of  sincere  patriots  very  uncom- 
fortable. It  is  true  that  you  see  constantly  in  the 
offices  of  the  various  ministries  men  of  military  age 
performing  tasks  that  might  possibly  be  left  to  those 
whom  physical  disability  or  age  bars  from  the  army. 
You  see  them  in  the  police  bureaus.  You  meet  them 
in  every  post-office  and  at  every  railway  station. 
Most  bewildering  of  all,  the  streets  are  fuller  of 
young  men  than  under  normal  circumstances. 

I  put  to  one  side  the  soldiers  in  uniform  conduct- 
ing automobiles  for  ladies  travestying  the  Red  Cross 
uniform.  There  are  yellow  dogs  in  every  kennel. 
But,  for  practically  all  the  men  between  twenty  and 
thirty-five  who  do  not  wear  the  red  trousers  there  is 
undoubtedly  a  good  excuse.  Few  men  in  France  are 
shirking,  or  want  to  shirk,  their  duty  to-day.  If 

233 


PARIS  REBORN 

they  have  not  gone  to  the  front,  it  is  from  no  lack  of 
will  on  their  part. 

Post-office  and  railway  employees  are  retained 
against  their  will.  They  feel  their  position  keenly. 
They  beg  in  vain  to  be  transferred  from  a  desk-stool 
or  a  train  to  the  battle  line.  They  are  told  that  the 
work  they  are  doing  for  France  could  not  be  done 
by  untrained  men,  and  that  they  are  aiding  the  na- 
tional defense  as  effectively  as  if  they  had  rifles  in 
their  hands.  They  are  given  official  brassards  (arm- 
bands) to  show  the  world  that  they  also  are  serving 
the  State.  But  when  the  invader  is  in  France,  a 
brassard  is  a  poor  substitute  for  a  uniform  to  a  young 
man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins. 

Then  there  are  those  who  cannot  show  the  bras- 
sards. If  the  streets  are  more  alive  with  young  men 
than  in  ordinary  times,  it  is  because  work  is  scarce, 
and  they  have  nothing  to  do.  Should  they  stay  at 
home'?  Should  they  hide  themselves  because  cir- 
cumstances beyond  their  control  have  kept  them  out 
of  the  army"? 

When  one  sees  on  the  street  a  young  man  under 
thirty-five  without  uniform  or  brassard,  it  may  be 
taken  for  granted  that  he  is  either  a  foreigner  or 
physically  unfit.  The  police  drag  net  was  out  during 
the  three  weeks  of  mobilization.  No  man  in  Paris 
was  able  to  escape  challenge  as  to  why  he  had  failed 
to  respond  to  the  call  to  arms.  Many  a  time  I  was 

234 


THE  CAFE  STRATEGISTS 

stopped,  and  asked  to  show  my  papers.  There  were 
gimlet  eyes  at  every  corner. 

It  takes  a  time  like  this  to  make  one  realize  how 
hard  it  is  to  detect  physical  unfitness.  The  tailor 
and  the  bootmaker  do  wonders  to  remove  signs 
of  deformity.  Disabilities  of  heart,  of  lungs,  of  ear, 
and  of  eye  are  not  generally  noticeable.  Often  even 
the  one  impaired  is  not  always  himself  aware  of  his 
disability  until  a  physician  has  carefully  looked  him 
over.  Foreigners  are  comparatively  few.  I  fre- 
quently feel  uncomfortable  under  the  scrutiny  of 
questioning  eyes.  It  seems  to  me  that  they  are  ask- 
ing, "What  in  the  world  can  be  the  matter  with  that 
man*?"  The  multitude  of  the  rejected  is  a  revela- 
tion of  how  many  there  are  in  the  world  who  are  not 
integer  vitae.  Those  who  are  fit  are  blind  to  the 
fact  that  there  are  others  less  fortunate  than  them- 
selves, and  never  think  of  their  own  freedom  from 
handicap  as  a  boon  to  be  thankful  for.  They  ac- 
cept health  as  a  matter  of  course.  Let  us  pity  the 
man  not  at  the  front — and  learn  the  lesson  of  his 
being  still  in  our  midst ! 

But  what  about  the  man  who  is  fit,  who  never  felt 
better  or  stronger  in  his  life,  who  never  was  in  better 
shape,  and  who  is  not  called  to  aid  in  the  national 
defense  merely  because  he  happens  to  have  cele- 
brated a  certain  number  of  birthdays?  A  man  be- 
tween thirty-five  and  sixty,  say  the  military  authori- 

235 


PARIS  REBORN 

ties,  makes  a  fine  officer.  But  they  don't  want  any 
soldiers  over  forty!  In  the  name  of  heaven,  why^ 
It  is  a  stupid  notion,  stupid  because  it  is  false.  I 
know  many  a  father  who  is  the  physical  equal  of  his 
grown  son.  Even  if  he  is  n't,  he  has  more  sense,  and 
that  helps  a  lot  in  fighting. 

When  the  Germans  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to 
Paris,  and  the  reason  given  was  that  they  had  a 
larger  army,  a  hundred  thousand  men  in  Paris  an- 
swered, "If  that  be  true,  take  us !"  They  began  to 
volunteer,  but  were  discouraged  when  they  found 
that  volunteering  would  mean  being  sent  to  a  gar- 
rison town  in  the  Midi. 

Perforce  the  fathers  have  to  join  the  grandfathers 
in  becoming  cafe  strategists.  This  is  the  distraction 
par  excellence  of  Paris  to-day.  The  official  com- 
muniques are  devoid  of  information.  The  people 
of  Paris  know  absolutely  nothing  about  the  opera- 
tions whose  end  is  to  defend  their  city.  When  one 
has  no  news  he  invents  it.  When  one  is  kept  in  the 
dark  he  makes  light  for  himself. 

In  a  cafe  where  I  usually  dine,  there  is  a  large 
map  on  the  wall.  Gathered  around  several  tables 
are  some  of  the  habitues.  They  have  appointed 
themselves  an  extra-official  "General  Staff"  of  the 
French  army.  Pencils  sketch  on  the  marble  table- 
tops  what  each  considers  should  have  been  last  week, 
and  ought  to  be  next  week,  the  proper  line  of  march. 

236 


THE  CAFE  STRATEGISTS 

After  we  have  listened  deferentially  to  the  resume 
of  General  Joffre's  errors  of  the  previous  day  by  the 
Veteran  of  1870,  who  always  has  the  first — and  gen- 
erally the  last — word,  the  discussion  becomes  elo- 
quent and  heated. 

This  evening  I  got  a  little  tired  of  "If  only  Gen- 
eral Joffre  had  done  this,"  "Now  if  only  General 
JofTre  would  do  this,"  and,  "I  wish  General  Joffre 
could  realize  how  wise  it  would  be  to  make  this 
move." 

I  retired  for  relief  to  my  Figaro.  My  eye 
caught  a  citation  from  Livy.  It  was  the  speech  Livy 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Paulus  ^Emilius,  before  his 
departure  to  take  command  of  the  Roman  army  for 
the  campaign  that  ended  in  the  victory  of  Pydna, 
168  B.  c. 

"In  every  gathering,  and  may  the  Gods  pardon 
me,  at  every  meal,  one  finds  people  who  are  deciding 
upon  the  march  against  Macedonia,  who  know  in 
what  places  we  ought  to  camp,  what  positions  it  is 
good  for  us  to  seize,  at  what  moment  and  by  what 
pass  there  is  the  best  opportunity  to  penetrate  the 
country,  how  we  shall  transport  our  provisions  by 
land  or  by  sea,  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  neces- 
sary to  take  the  offensive,  and  those  in  which  it  is 
better  to  remain  inactive.  And,  not  only  do  they 
sketch  the  plan  of  campaign  to  follow,  but  of  every- 
thing that  has  not  been  done  according  to  their  idea 

237 


PARIS  REBORN 

they  make  a  crime,  accuse  the  Consul,  and  almost  es- 
tablish themselves  a  court  to  judge  him. 

"It  is  not  that  I  pretend  that  the  generals  do  not 
need  advice,  but  this  advice  must  be  given  by  men 
who  have  some  practice  and  knowledge  of  military 
affairs,  who  are  on  the  spot,  within  reach  of  seeing 
the  enemy  and  the  opportunities,  and  who,  so  to 
speak,  are  embarked  upon  the  same  vessel  and  are 
sharing  the  same  dangers.  But  if  a  man  believes 
that  the  quiet  and  peace  of  the  city  are  preferable  to 
the  fatigues  of  a  war,  let  him  not  have  the  presump- 
tion to  want  to  hold  the  rudder  while  he  rests  on  the 
bank. 

"The  life  of  the  capital  offers  enough  subject  for 
conversation.  Limit  to  this  domain  your  gossip, 
and  know  that  the  advice  which  we  receive  from  those 
in  the  camp  is  sufficient  for  us." 

Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun4? 


238 


XXVI 

THE    DESECRATION    OF    REIMS 

September  twenty-first. 

WARM  weather  has  come  again  after  the  cold 
snap  of  the  past  week,  and  the  first  morning 
thought,  after  rising  from  a  comfortable  bed,  must 
be  to  others,  as  it  is  to  me,  a  feeling  of  thankfulness 
that  our  soldiers  in  the  trenches  will  have  better 
days.  I  stepped  out  on  the  balcony,  and  looked  over 
Paris  just  waking  to  the  day's  work.  The  mist  was 
rising,  and  the  sun  fell  full  upon  the  white  basilica 
of  Sacre  Cceur.  Paris  was  at  my  feet,  from  the  dome 
of  Val-de-Grace  to  the  Eiffel  Tower  and  the  Great 
Wheel.  How  happy  my  family  will  be  when  they 
come  back  from  Finistere  next  week,  and  see  how 
well  I  have  fared  in  hunting  for  a  new  apartment ! 

When  I  went  downstairs  I  was  thinking  of  the 
difference  it  makes  in  life  to  have  one's  loved  ones 
around  one.  The  anticipation  of  reunion  almost 
compensates  for  months  of  separation.  We  know 
things  in  this  life  only  by  contrast.  As  the  black- 
board is  needed  to  make  visible  the  chalk,  so  pain  is 
needed  to  make  sensible  joy. 

239 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  face  of  my  concierge  brought  me  rudely  back 
to  earth. 

"What  is  it*?"  I  exclaimed.  "Surely  there  is  not 
bad  news  of  your  boy?" 

"Have  you  seen  the  paper,  Monsieur1?"  he  asked, 
with  tears  in  his  voice.  Or  was  it  rage  9  He  disap- 
peared without  enlightening  me. 

I  hurried  to  my  newsdealer.  Some  event  has  af- 
fected my  concierge  more  deeply  than  the  report  of 
battles  lost  and  thousands  slaughtered. 

The  newspapers  are  not  allowed  these  days  to  dis- 
play a  headline  more  than  two  columns  in  width. 
So  they  cannot  feature  out  of  the  day's  harvest  one 
item  that  the  eye  catches  with  a  glance.  There  is 
much  the  same  story  in  the  paper  this  morning,  the 
usual  Russian  and  Servian  victories  and  the  Germans 
at  bay  in  their  entrenchments  on  the  Aisne.  In  the 
official  communique,  however,  I  notice  that  the  Ger- 
mans had  destroyed  the  Cathedral  of  Reims  by  bom- 
bardment. This  is,  of  course,  a  shock  to  me;  but 
I  look  still  further  for  the  cause  of  the  concierge's 
agitation.  No,  the  military  situation  seems  good 
on  the  whole,  and  no  new  developments  stand  out  in 
the  day's  news.  It  must  be  the  desecration  of 
Reims. 

And  then  I  remembered  the  attitude  of  a  peasant 
who  had  come  to  Paris  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Senlis  at  the  time  of  von  Kluck's  march  three  weeks 

240 


THE  DESECRATION  OF  REIMS 

ago.  He  heard  the  news  of  the  destruction  of  his 
home  and  his  corps  with  indifference,  but  when  he 
was  assured  that  none  of  the  historic  monuments  of 
the  town  itself  had  been  injured,  his  face  lit  up  with 
joy.  "Thank  God,  thank  God,  thank  God!"  I 
wondered  what  there  was  to  thank  God  about  in  the 
recital  of  the  calamities  that  had  fallen  upon  him. 
This  wonder  found  expression  in  words.  He  an- 
swered simply,  "God  has  not  allowed  the  barbarians 
to  harm  our  Cathedral." 

Only  one  who  has  lived  in  the  Old  World  can  re- 
alize the  Old  World's  affection  for  monuments  of 
the  past.  I  have  never  had  this  more  strikingly  im- 
pressed upon  me  than  to-day.  Often  the  affection 
is  local,  for  the  monument  is  local.  But  the  Ca- 
thedral of  Reims  has  around  it  the  historical  mem- 
ories and  religious  affections  of  the  French  nation. 
The  Cathedral  of  Reims  was  built  to  commemorate 
the  spot  where,  through  St.  Remy,  the  Franks  re- 
ceived the  Christian  faith.  Here  the  kings  of  France 
were  crowned  from  the  time  of  Clovis.  Jeanne 
d'Arc  made  it  a  matter  of  vital  importance  that  the 
French  army  undertake  the  journey  to  Reims  across 
country  held  by  the  enemy  in  order  that  Charles  VII 
might  be  made  king  of  the  nation  by  sanction  and 
unction. 

The  Germans  have  destroyed  the  Cathedral  of 
Reims,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  one  of  their  princi- 

241 


PARIS  REBORN 

pal  newspapers,  fearing  this  vandalism,  pleaded 
against  it.  The  Frankfurter  Zeitung,  on  September 
8,  declared: 

"Let  us  respect  the  French  cathedrals,  especially 
that  of  Reims,  which  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
churches  of  the  entire  world.  Since  the  Middle 
Ages  it  is  particularly  dear  to  the  Germans.  For  the 
master  von  Bamberg  gained  from  the  statues  of  its 
doors  the  inspiration  of  several  of  his  figures.  The 
cathedrals  of  Laon,  Rouen,  Amiens,  and  Beauvais 
are  also  masterpieces  of  Gothic  art.  All  these  cities 
are  at  this  hour  occupied  by  the  Germans.  We  shall 
regard  with  veneration  these  superb  churches,  and 
shall  respect  them  as  our  fathers  did  in  1870." 

Just  three  months  ago,  the  Artist  and  I  were  in 
Reims.  We  had  drifted  in  from  Dormans  over  the 
narrow-gauge  railway  on  a  rainy  Saturday  afternoon. 
Sunday  morning  was  flooded  with  sunshine,  and 
there  was  in  the  air  the  smell  that  the  earthworm 
loves.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  you  prefer  the 
preaching  of  Dr.  Greenfields  to  that  of  any  city  par- 
son. But  our  train  for  the  valley  of  the  Ourcq  did 
not  leave  till  after  lunch,  so  we  wandered  to  the 
cathedral.  I  urged  a  plate  of  the  front  of  the  ca- 
thedral. The  Artist  demurred. 

"Reims  is  so  overdone,"  he  said,  but  not  with 
finality.  For  already  his  eyes  were  half-shut,  and 
his  head  bent  slightly  to  the  left.  I  knew  what  that 

242 


THE  DESECRATION  OF  REIMS 

meant.  He  had  discovered  something  attractive  in 
the  scaffolding  erected  for  the  refection  of  the  left- 
hand  tower.  And  scaffolding  goes  well  in  copper- 
plate etching.  I  knew  he  was  good  for  two  hours 
at  the  least,  just  as  good  as  if  actually  fettered  to 
the  spot  where  he  stood.  So  I  went  inside  the  ca- 
thedral. 

It  was  the  Sunday  after  Fete-Dieu,  and  high  mass 
was  being  celebrated  in  all  the  grandeur  of  the 
grandest  church  of  France.  Amidst  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers  and  the  soft  light  from  the  old  win- 
dows, reflected  upon  those  tapestries  that  were  of  the 
rarest  treasures  this  world  possessed,  I  listened  to 
Cardinal  Lugon  plead  against  the  dangers  of  pros- 
perity. 

Was  that  only  three  months  ago?  That  splendid 
pageant,  that  picture  of  ecclesiastical  dignity,  of  the 
Christian  spirit  in  the  hearts  of  men,  that  venerable 
figure  clothed  in  purple !  What  a  change !  It  was 
an  old  man  this  morning,  just  returned  from  the  con- 
clave in  which  the  new  Pope  was  elected,  and  de- 
tained in  Paris  by  the  interruption  of  railway  com- 
munications, who  sat  with  bowed  head,  nervously 
clutching  at  his  sleeve  and  buttoning  and  unbutton- 
ing the  front  of  his  cassock.  Tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks,  and  the  words  came  amidst  convulsive  sobs: 

"I  have  just  come  back  from  Rome.  I  have  not 
been  able  yet  to  get  to  my  diocese.  I  knew  already 

243 


PARIS  REBORN 

that  the  venerable  church  of  St.  Remy  had  suffered 
much,  but  I  hoped  that  the  destruction  of  the  ca- 
thedral, cradle  of  Christian  France,  bound  up  with 
so  many  souvenirs  of  our  national  history,  would 
be  a  burden  of  woe  and  anguish  spared  to  my  white 
hairs." 

There  were  no  words  of  comfort  that  could  be 
said  to  a  broken-hearted  man. 

"To  God  will  be  the  retribution :  in  His  hands  are 
the  scales  of  justice,"  were  the  phrases  he  muttered 
over  and  over  again.  "I  must  go  home,  if  I  can. 
But  would  to  God  I  did  not  have  to  see  Reims !" 

Are  we  in  the  twentieth  century?  Is  German 
Kultur  only  a  veneer  of  civilization1?  Louvain  was 
bad  enough,  but  it  did  not  strike  the  heart  of  France. 
Parisians  feel  to-day  just  as  Americans  would  feel 
if  an  enemy  should  come  and  burn  down  the  Phila- 
delphia State  House  and  throw  the  Liberty  Bell  into 
the  Delaware  River.  The  breach  between  France 
and  Germany  is  now  too  wide  to  be  healed.  Much 
could  have  been  forgiven,  or  at  least  forgotten. 
What  happened  in  Reims  on  Saturday  and  Sunday 
has  made  a  gulf  that  cannot  be  bridged  over,  even  to 
the  third  and  fourth  generation. 

September  twenty-third. 

In  my  appreciation  two  days  ago  of  the  feeling  of 
the  French  in  regard  to  the  destruction  of  Reims 

244 


Reims  Cathedral 

This  plate  is  probably  the  last  etching  of  Reims  Cathedral  made  directly  on  the  copper  from  the  subject. 
It  was  drawn  in  Reims  shortly  before  the  bombardment 


THE  DESECRATION  OF  REIMS 

Cathedral,  I  understated  its  significance,  even 
though  what  I  said  was  rather  sweeping.  With 
every  hour  indignation,  or  rather  the  wild  rage  of 
anger,  has  grown. 

Ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  one  has  had 
reason  to  believe  that  the  Germans  have  no  appre- 
ciation whatever  of  "psychological  effects."  They 
have  thought  that  the  exhibition  of  brute  force,  of 
vandalism,  and  heartless  repression  would  terrorize 
non-combatants,  paralyze  the  activity  of  the  French 
army,  and  make  the  city  of  Paris  willing  to  surren- 
der. In  order  to  bring  about  this  effect,  they  have 
not  hesitated  to  incur  universal  condemnation  of 
their  actions.  But  they  reveal  a  woeful  lack  of  un- 
derstanding of  human  nature,  of  Gallic  nature  par- 
ticularly. For  the  more  barbarous  they  have  shown 
themselves,  the  more  they  have  inspired  the  French 
to  resistance. 

Take  the  cathedral  at  Reims.  It  was  probably 
destroyed  in  order  to  give  the  Parisians  an  example 
of  what  they  may  expect  if  the  Germans  are  success- 
ful in  the  present  battle  and  come  again  to  attack 
Paris.1  The  cathedral  stood  in  a  position  where  it 

1  It  was  not  until  some  days  later  that  we  learned  that  the  cathe- 
dral had  not  been  wholly  destroyed.  From  photographs  it  appears 
that  the  destruction  was  only  partial,  and  not,  perhaps,  irreparable. 
The  tapestries,  too,  whose  loss  I  have  inferred,  were  removed  to  a 
place  of  safety.  Nor,  when  I  wrote  this,  did  I  have  before  me  the 
German  justification  for  having  turned  their  cannon  on  the  cathe- 

247 


PARIS  REBORN 

could  be  seen  for  twenty-five  to  thirty  miles  from  the 
south  and  west.  It  has  been  a  landmark  on  the 
horizon  for  the  French  armies  since  they  started  the 
present  battle  along  the  line  from  the  frontier  to 
Compiegne.  As  long  as  the  cathedral  was  intact, 
the  instinct  of  a  chivalrous  race  rendered  unwilling 
homage  to  the  intention  of  the  Germans  to  respect 
their  most  precious  treasure.  The  moment  the  ca- 
thedral disappeared  in  flames  and  smoke,  the  Ger- 
mans gave  to  the  French  army  an  incentive,  an  in- 
spiration, an  impulse  to  fight,  far  more  valuable  than 
the  reinforcements  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  fresh 
troops. 

The  Germans  have  thought  to  strike  terror  and 
dismay.  Instead  of  that,  they  have  aroused  a  spirit 
of  determination,  that  cannot  fail  to  bring  about 
their  defeat.  If  the  destruction  of  the  cathedral  at 
Reims  is  a  token  of  what  we  may  expect  at  Paris, 
every  Frenchman  on  the  battle  line,  having  this 
warning,  says  to  himself  that  it  is  only  over  the  bodies 
of  a  million  dead  men  that  the  German  cannon  will 
now  get  within  range  of  Notre  Dame. 

dral.  But  I  do  not  revise  what  I  have  written,  nor  presume  to  pass 
judgment  on  the  bombardment  as  an  impartial  writer  with  the 
facts  to  guide  him.  These  letters  are  merely  an  impression  of 
Paris  from  day  to  day  as  things  looked  at  the  time  of  writing. 


248 


XXVII 

"ON  DIT" 

September  twenty-second. 

IN  war  time  (is  it  any  different  in  time  of  peace*?) 
there  is  nothing  more  astonishing  than  what 
"they  say."  When  news  is  suppressed,  rumor  nat- 
urally takes  the  place  of  fact.  This  frequently 
brings  serious  consequences.  We  have  already  seen 
that  in  Paris.  But  there  are  many  rumors  that  grow 
alongside  of  fact  to  embellish  it,  even  when  there  is 
no  suppression  of  news;  and  while  some  stories  are 
evolved  from  a  kernel  of  truth,  others  are  manufac- 
tured out  of  the  whole  cloth. 

From  the  very  first  days  of  the  war,  I  have  been 
reading  in  the  newspapers  and  hearing  by  word  of 
mouth  stories  of  German  atrocities  in  Belgium.  Un- 
doubtedly many  of  them  are  true.  No  man  can 
play  at  war.  Killing  awakens  evil  passions.  Men 
become  brutes.  I  have  had  the  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving how  the  sight  of  blood  awakens  sexual  pas- 
sions. I  have  seen  men  of  naturally  good  instincts 
transformed  into  devils.  As  the  appetite  grows  in 
eating,  so  the  madness  of  destruction  gets  the  better 

249 


PARIS  REBORN 

of  those  who  destroy.  Destruction  may  begin  for  a 
reasonable  and  definite  purpose.  It  generally  ends 
in  wantonness. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  however,  that  practically  every 
story  of  German  cruelty  and  destruction  I  have 
heard  before.  During  the  wars  of  the  Balkan  penin- 
sula, "they  said"  the  same  stories.  I  mean  the 
stories  in  their  exact  form,  just  as  they  are  being 
retailed  to  us  here  in  Paris!  There  are  the  boys 
whose  hands  are  cut  off  in  order  that  they  may  not, 
when  grown  to  manhood,  bear  arms  against  the  con- 
queror; the  little  fellow  playing  "sodjers"  with  a 
toy  gun  shot  because  he  was  taken  "with  arms  in  his 
hands";  the  men  crucified  at  the  cross-roads;  the 
women  shot  as  they  were  kneeling  in  prayer;  the 
father  struck  down  when  holding  his  child,  and  the 
sword  killing  both  with  the  same  blow;  the  baby 
thrown  in  the  air  and  caught  on  the  point  of  the 
bayonets;  the  woman  and  children  forced  to  march 
in  front  of  advancing  columns  to  stay  the  fire'  of 
husbands  and  fathers  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy.  I 
refrain  from  mentioning  other  stories  far  more  hor- 
rible than  these.  Like  jokes,  they  can  be  traced 
back.  Frenchmen  can  read  some  of  them  in  Victor 
Hugo's  Histoire  d'un  Crime,  in  the  lurid  and  scath- 
ing account  of  the  actions  of  French  soldiers  in  Paris 
at  the  time  of  the  coup  d'etat  that  placed  Napoleon 
III  in  power.  But  Victor  Hugo  is  modern.  We  can 

250 


"ON  BIT" 

pursue  our  research  with  success  back  to  Herodotus 
and  Livy. 

I  do  not  mean  to  express  my  belief  that  these 
stories  are  untrue.  Only,  it  is  human  nature  repeat- 
ing itself  and  not  German  nature.  If  true,  they  are 
the  exception.  But  "on  dit"  transforms  acts  of  van- 
dalism and  barbarism  into  common  practice. 

I  have  often  wondered  during  these  past  weeks  if, 
after  all,  the  only  truth  is  that  "all  men  are  liars" ! 
Are  we  victims  of  hallucination,  are  we  easily  self- 
deceived,  or  do  we  deliberately  state  what  we  know  is 
not  true,  and  come  finally  to  believe  what  we  say 
by  frequency  of  statement?  Is  our  sincerity  a  mat- 
ter of  practice,  and  does  exoneration  come  through 
habit? 

I  have  noted,  "just  for  fun,"  the  occasions  during 
the  past  few  weeks  in  which  women  engaged  now  in 
Red  Cross  work, — women  for  whom  I  have  the  high- 
est regard — have  taken  me  aside  and  told  me  con- 
fidentially of  the  "horrible  thing  that  has  happened 
in  our  hospital."  They  have  a  wounded  Turco. 
He  came  to  them  with  a  package  from  which  he  re- 
fused to  be  separated.  They  opened  it — for  obvious 
reasons — and  found  the  head  of  a  German.  The 
fair  dame  vouches  absolutely  for  the  authenticity  of 
the  story.  I  have  recorded  seven  different  hospitals 
where  the  same  thing  has  happened  in  exactly  the 
same  way.  Generally  this  story  is  coupled  with  an- 

251 


PARIS  REBORN 

other  to  the  effect  that  "we  cannot  have  any  more 
German  wounded  in  our  hospital,  for  the  Turcos  get 
up  in  the  night  and  strangle  them."  I  first  heard 
this  story  told  about  a  Bulgarian  soldier  in  a  hospital 
at  Sofia:  the  graphic  details  were  the  same.  But 
you  never  meet  the  actual  eye-witness.  The  story 
always  comes  at  second  hand. 

Another  kind  of  "they  say"  stories,  passing  from 
mouth  to  mouth  with  wonderful  rapidity,  is  the 
"inside  track"  news.  One  never  knows  where  it 
comes  from,  but  it  seems  to  get  everywhere.  One 
person  says,  "Have  you  heard  .  .  .  *?"  and  the  other 
person,  "Yes,  and  have  you  heard  .  .  .  *?"  Here 
are  some  of  the  examples  of  the  stories  that  were  told 
me  with  perfect  gravity  by  men  in  responsible  official 
positions  in  Paris.  I  heard  them  all  within  two 
hours,  when  I  was  taking  my  daily  "constitutional" 
at  the  end  of  a  late  August  afternoon. 

It  seems  that  "they  were  saying"  that  President 
Poincare  and  the  Cabinet  had  already  moved  to  Bor- 
deaux; that  the  Bank  of  France  had  taken  all  its 
money  to  Havre  where  ships  under  steam  were  ready 
at  a  moment's  notice  to  transport  it  to  England; 
that  there  were  five  hundred  alive  out  of  a  hundred 
thousand  British  troops;  that  the  French  army  was 
practically  annihilated;  that  the  German  army  would 
be  at  Versailles  that  very  evening;  that  at  Compiegne 
the  French  drenched  the  trees  with  petrol,  set  the 

252 


"ON  DIT" 

whole  forest  on  fire  and  burned  alive  a  division  of 
the  Germans ;  that  thousands  of  Germans  have  been 
killed  by  the  new  French  bomb  which  on  exploding 
lets  out  a  gas  that  asphyxiates  every  one  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  it;  that  on  the  way  to  Bordeaux  the 
Cabinet,  in  session  in  a  special  train,  decided  to  give 
up  the  city  without  a  struggle ;  that  the  Eiffel  Tower 
was  mined  at  its  four  corners  and  would  be  blown 
up  before  the  Germans  entered  the  city ;  that  the  sup- 
plies of  petroleum  and  gasolene  which  the  Govern- 
ment could  not  carry  away  from  Paris  had  been 
dumped  into  the  Seine.  So  it  went ! 

Around  the  most  unlikely  stories  of  the  "whole 
cloth"  variety  grow  with  the  telling  all  the  earmarks 
of  truth.  This  is  most  strikingly  illustrated  by  the 
universal  belief  in  Paris  of  the  coming  of  the  Cos- 
sacks. From  my  concierge,  from  the  femme  de 
menage  who  comes  every  morning  to  look  after  my 
office,  from  the  friends  I  meet  in  the  street  or  res- 
taurant, from  the  clerk  at  the  Embassy  who  has  "in- 
side official  information,  but  you  must  not  quote  the 
source,"  even  from  the  army  officer  on  the  General 
Staff,  you  have  the  positive  assertion  of  fact. 

The  Government  is  suffering  from  the  mistaken 
policy  of  having  magnified  victories  and  suppressed 
the  news  of  reverses.  The  policy  of  silence,  if 
adopted,  should  work  both  ways.  As  it  has  just  as 
bad  an  effect  upon  the  public  to  raise  their  hopes  as 

253 


PARIS  REBORN 

to  cause  them  anxiety,  good  news  presents  the  same 
difficulty  as  bad  news,  especially  when  there  is  some 
of  both  to  give  out. 

A  great  deal  of  the  unrest  in  Paris  during  "the 
week"  was  due  to  the  lack  of  wisdom  of  the  news- 
papers. From  the  very  beginning  of  the  struggle, 
we  had  heard  that  the  Germans  were  fighting  with- 
out any  spirit  whatever,  that  their  officers  were  driv- 
ing them  into  battle  at  the  point  of  the  sword,  that 
their  infantry  marched  poorly,  that  their  artillery 
fire  was  wild  and  that  their  cavalry  was  absolutely 
lacking  in  the  qualities  which  had  been  claimed  for 
it.  The  news  of  the  Berlin  press  agencies  has  been 
pilloried  to  show  how  the  Germans  are  carrying  on  a 
campaign  of  lies  to  convince  the  outside  world  that 
they  are  winning.  All  the  while,  the  facts  seem  to 
controvert  these  reiterated  statements  of  our  press. 
The  forts  of  Liege  were  not  still  holding  out ;  Namur 
was  taken ;  the  Germans  occupied  Brussels  sans  coup 
ferir;  and  they  passed  their  immense  army  into 
France  while  we  were  reading  that  "their  game  was 
already  up" ! 

If  it  is  true  that  neither  their  infantry  nor  their 
artillery  nor  their  cavalry  can  be  compared  for  a 
minute  with  that  of  the  French  and  that  their  soldiers 
are  fighting  without  any  spirit  whatever,  how  is  it 
that  the  Germans  have  been  able  to  penetrate  large 
portions  of  northern  France  and  have  come  near 

254 


"ON  BIT" 

Paris  itself?  If  it  is  true  that  they  do  not  know 
how  to  use  aeroplanes — and  this  is  one  of  the  most 
frequently  reiterated  statements  of  the  press — why 
did  we  have  the  daily  visits  over  the  city  of  Paris? 

I  am  merely  reporting  here  the  questions  which 
the  Parisians,  after  reading  their  newspapers,  have 
asked  themselves.  It  was  pretty  cold  comfort  to 
pick  up  your  paper  in  the  morning  and  find  abso- 
lutely no  word  about  the  military  movements  in 
France,  but  long  enthusiastic  articles  telling  how  the 
Russians  were  advancing  on  Berlin. 

As  the  Germans  marched  through  Belgium  and 
France  towards  Paris,  we  were  fed  daily  with  this 
story  of  the  Russian  advance  on  Berlin  and  with  the 
wonderful  things  the  Russian  army  was  accomplish- 
ing. The  newspapers  continue  to  publish  telegrams 
from  their  Petrograd  correspondents  about  the  colos- 
sal numbers  of  troops  that  Russia  has  called  into  the 
field.  The  most  reliable  papers  in  Paris  state  for 
the  comfort  of  their  readers  that  Russia  has  six  mil- 
lion men  under  arms,  that  four  million  reservists 
are  assembling  in  their  provinces,  and  that  another 
two  million  are  coming  from  Siberia  and  Central 
Asia.  These  hordes  are  expected  very  soon  to  fall 
upon  Germany. 

When  one  considers  that  railways  are  few  and 
that  money  is  not  very  plentiful,  the  putting  of  an 
army  of  ten  to  twelve  million  men  into  the  field  seems 

255 


PARIS  REBORN 

an  impossible  undertaking.  Where  could  Russia 
find  ten  million  modern  rifles'?  Any  one  who  knows 
Russia  and  has  become  acquainted  with  Russian  ad- 
ministration and  the  intellectual  condition  of  the 
country  sees  the  absurdity  of  figuring  on  an  army  of 
this  size. 

A  good  army  must  have  an  officer  for  every  ten 
men.  If  all  the  educated  men  in  Russia  of  military 
age  were  at  the  front,  the  Russians  could  not  officer 
efficiently  an  army  of  more  than  four  millions. 
Even  on  a  peace  footing,  Russia  has  always  had  ex- 
treme difficulty  adequately  to  officer  her  army.  The 
absence  of  a  great  educated  middle  class  is  the  ex- 
planation of  this.  It  is  extremely  doubtful  if  there 
are  more  than  two  million  Russians  in  the  field,  and 
if,  when  the  mobilization  is  complete,  Russia  can 
muster  more  than  three  million  men  fit  for  offensive 
warfare  against  Germany  and  Austria-Hungary. 
Some  of  her  best  regiments  must  be  kept  in  Central 
Asia,  and  the  attitude  of  Turkey  does  not  allow  her 
to  draw  from  her  standing  army  in  the  Caucasus. 

I  suppose  it  was  because  the  Russians  have  in  popu- 
lar imagination  so  many  more  soldiers  than  they 
need  to  face  both  Germany  and  Austria,  that  the 
story  of  the  Russian  Cossacks  cooperating  on  the  bat- 
tle-fields of  France  and  Belgium  has  been  able  to 
gain  ground. 

For  the  past  month  I  have  been  hearing  most  cir- 
256 


"ON  BIT" 

cumstantial  statements  concerning  the  arrival  of 
these  Cossacks.  There  are  not  less  than  fifty  thou- 
sand of  them,  each  with  his  horse  from  the  Tartar 
Steppes,  who  had  already  arrived.  They  had  ac- 
tually been  seen  disembarking  at  Aberdeen.  "An 
Oxford  professor,"  "my  mother-in-law,"  "my  uncle's 
sister  by  marriage,"  "a  traveling  salesman  who  is 
the  husband  of  my  sister's  old  friend  at  the  convent 
school,"  are  the  authorities  for  this  statement. 
There  have  been  letters  received,  even  telegrams, 
confirming  the  transportation  of  these  Cossacks  across 
England.  Travelers  have  seen  them  landing  at 
Ostend,  Dunkirk,  Boulogne,  Rouen,  St.  Malo,  and 
Brest.  Seventy-five  trainloads  passed  through 
Rouen,  holding  up  the  traffic  for  hours.  A  British 
officer  on  the  Avenue  de  POpera  was  heard  to  tell 
that  they  were  encamped  near  Versailles.  Wounded 
soldiers,  coming  from  the  front,  and  refugees  have 
described  minutely — and  variously ! — how  they  were 
clothed.  They  wore  beaver  busbies,  copper  helmets, 
and  brilliant  red  fezes.  The  most  narrow  question- 
ing could  not  shake  the  faith  of  those  who  told  these 
stories.  My  informants  have  been  as  sure  that  the 
Cossacks  had  come  as  that  the  sun  would  rise  to- 
morrow morning. 

So  persistent  have  been  these  rumors,  in  England 
as  well  as  here,  that  the  British  Official  Press  Bureau 
has  found  it  necessary  to  deny  them. 

257 


PARIS  REBORN 

Last  night  I  had  a  copy  of  the  London  newspaper 
containing  the  sweeping  denial  that  any  Cossacks 
had  been  landed  in  England,  Scotland,  France,  or 
Belgium.  "No  Cossacks  have  come :  no  Russians  of 
any  branch  of  the  army  are  expected,"  reads  the  of- 
ficial statement. 

At  dinner  I  showed  this  newspaper  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  captain  in  the  Ninth  Zouaves,  who  is  re- 
cuperating from  wounds  received  at  Charleroi.  I 
read  the  official  denial  to  him.  He  shook  his  head. 
"Of  course,"  he  explained,  "they  say  that  because 
they  do  not  want  the  Germans  to  know.  But  a 
friend  of  mine  came  yesterday  from  Chantilly,  and 
he  said  that  the  station  master  told  him  that — " 

And  so  the  belief  remains.  They  will  have  the 
Cossacks  here.  Next  it  will  be  the  Japanese ! 


258 


XXVIII 

A    CITY    SUFFERING 

September  twenty-third. 

THE  hardships  of  American  tourists  and  their 
disappointment  over  the  spoiled  summer  vaca- 
tion, their  worry  over  lost  trunks  and  uncashed 
checks,  their  wrath  over  missed  steamship  passages, 
are  no  longer  even  a  memory — except  for  them- 
selves. When  one  thinks  of  the  million  in  Paris 
to-day  without  work,  without  men  folks,  who  face 
starvation  with  a  smile  and  with  the  heroism  of  those 
who  know  that  they  can  give  something  else  than 
their  blood  on  the  battle-field  to  sustain  their  coun- 
try in  the  hour  of  need,  there  comes  the  realization 
of  the  difference  between  real  trouble  and  petty  dis- 
comfort, of  how  the  former  brings  out  a  nobility  of 
soul  in  welcome  contrast  to  the  meanness  produced 
by  the  latter. 

Now  that  Paris  is  beginning  to  become  accustomed 
to  the  state  of  war,  and  has  passed  through  the 
crisis  of  a  German  attack,  the  economic  effect  of  the 
war  is  being  felt  more  keenly.  Excitement  and 
uncertainty  of  the  immediate  future  no  longer  pre- 
259 


PARIS  REBORN 

vent  us  from  giving  first  thought  to  what  is  in  the 
larder — and  what  is  not  there! 

Contrary  to  the  general  impression  that  seems  to 
be  voiced  by  the  American  newspapers,  the  war  has 
not  as  yet  caused  any  increase  in  the  price  of  food- 
stuffs. Prices  are  virtually  as  they  were  before 
the  war  started.  There  is  a  splendid  supply  upon 
the  market  of  every  kind  of  comestible  that  Paris  is 
accustomed  to  have  under  normal  conditions.  I 
have  noticed  no  difference  either  of  price  or  variety 
in  restaurant  menus.  The  public  services  in  the 
city  have  not  been  seriously  disarranged  since  the 
first  days  of  mobilization.1 

The  problem  is  not,  then,  one  of  food,  of  means 
of  transportation,  of  light  and  heat.  If  is  the  prob- 
lem of  getting  the  money  to  pay  for  these  things. 
The  mobilization  has  taken  to  the  front  so  many 
men  from  Paris,  and  the  money  stringency  has  re- 
duced so  greatly  the  number  of  buyers,  that  retail 
houses,  if  not  closed  entirely,  can  offer  no  employ- 
ment to  those  who  are  seeking  places.  In  whole- 
sale business  and  in  manufacturing,  lack  of  credit, 
of  railway  transportation,  and  of  raw  material  has 
compelled  almost  every  firm  to  close  its  doors.  So 
a  great  part  of  the  population  of  the  city  finds  itself 
out  of  work. 

1  Except  the  motor-busses,  which  were  commandeered  for  army 
service  on  the  first  day  of  the  mobilization. 

260 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

The  Government  is  giving,  for  wives  and  chil- 
dren of  soldiers,  and  for  mothers  where  they  can 
prove  that  they  are  dependent  upon  their  sons,  a 
daily  sum  just  sufficient  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether. But  there  are  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
people  in  Paris  who  cannot  claim  this  aid.  Boys 
under  military  age,  men  over  military  age,  or  who, 
for  some  physical  defect,  have  been  rejected  for 
army  service,  women  and  girls  who  have  been  wage 
earners,  can  earn  little  or  nothing.  There  are  few 
organizations  to  which  they  can  apply  for  relief. 
Winter  is  coming.  Who  sees  any  immediate  pros- 
pect of  the  ordinary  economic  life  of  the  nation  be- 
ing resumed? 

Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  virtually  every 
wage  earner  in  France  has  "something  in  the  stock- 
ing," their  plight  to-day  would  be  pitful  beyond 
words.  But  these  savings,  put  aside  to  buy  interest- 
bearing  investments,  will  not,  among  the  poor,  last 
very  long.  What  is  to  be  done  then4? 

The  Government  has  already  taken  into  considera- 
tion the  question  of  rents.  No  one  can  be  dispos- 
sessed for  non-payment  of  rent  until  January.1 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  before  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  and  declare  that  you  cannot  pay  the  rent. 

1  This  moratorium,  limited  to  modest  rentals,  has  since  been  pro- 
longed indefinitely,  and  widened  in  scope  to  include  places  of  busi- 
ness whose  annual  rental  does  not  exceed  2500  francs. 

26l 


PARIS  REBORN 

Ninety  days  of  grace  are  given,  beginning  October 
first.  But  rent  is  always  an  important  item  of  ex- 
pense with  the  working  man  in  the  city.  He  de- 
pends upon  his  daily  earnings  to  meet  this  dreaded 
quarterly  obligation.  Those  who  are  without  work 
now,  and  who  find  it  difficult  even  to  get  food  to 
put  in  their  mouths,  can  regard  the  moratorium  for 
rents  only  as  a  measure  which  puts  off  the  evil  day. 
The  wage  earners  who  are  in  the  army  and  who  are 
earning  nothing  will  be  confronted  with  this  prob- 
lem of  paying  arrears  of  rent  when  they  come  home. 
We  are  just  beginning  to  see  the  horror  of  the 
economic  disorganization  caused  by  war.  In  a  coun- 
try where  there  is  universal  military  service,  each 
week  makes  matters  worse. 

So,  in  the  opinion  of  the  thinking  men  in  France, 
the  work  of  providing  for  the  resumption  of  indus- 
trial life,  with  the  receding  of  the  wave  of  invasion, 
is  equal  in  importance  to  that  of  national  defense. 
Steps  must  soon  be  taken  by  the  Government  to  en- 
courage, and,  if  necessary,  to  force,  the  return  of 
normal  economic  conditions  through  the  reopening 
of  factories  and  of  business  houses,  upon  which  the 
great  bulk  of  the  city  population  depends  for  its 
daily  bread. 

This  uneasiness  concerning  the  future  is  begin- 
ning to  be  felt.  It  is  reassuring  to  know  that  the 
German  armies  are  retreating.  It  is  equally  reas- 

262 


The  markets  are  full  of  food-stuffs 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

suring  to  be  told  every  day  that  the  markets  are 
full  of  foodstuffs.  But  the  anxiety  caused  by  the 
war  becomes  daily  keener  in  most  homes  of  the  na- 
tion. It  is  hard  to  give  your  men  to  the  army,  and 
not  to  know  whether  they  are  alive  or  dead.  But 
when  the  additional  burden  is  placed  upon  them  of 
getting  bread  to  put  in  their  children's  mouths,  we 
can  realize  what  the  war  means  to  the  women  of 
France. 

September  twenty- fourth. 

For  nine  days  the  greatest  battle  in  history  has 
been  raging  between  the  Aisne  and  Oise  in  the  midst 
of  the  equinoctial  storms.  There  is  no  great  anxiety 
in  Paris  about  the  outcome  of  this  battle,  upon  which 
depends  the  fate  of  the  city.  It  is  felt  that  the 
crucial  moment  has  passed,  and  that  the  star  of  Ger- 
man militarism  is  on  the  wane. 

No  matter  what  the  Germans  may  succeed  in  do- 
ing on  the  Aisne,  they  are,  and  will  be,  in  spite  of 
any  temporary  successes,  upon  the  defensive  from 
now  on  in  France.  The  legend  of  the  invincibility 
of  the  Germans  was  destroyed  in  the  battle  of  the 
Marne.  Having  once  seen  the  Imperial  Eagles  in 
retreat,  the  French  soldiers  know  that  the  trick  is 
possible,  and  are  confident  that  they  can  repeat  it. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  confidence,  there  is  no  ex- 
ultation here.  Rather  we  are  in  the  midst  of  an 

265 


PARIS  REBORN 

anguish  and  sorrow  more  poignant  than  any  that  has 
yet  been  felt  during  this  unhappy  war.  For  it  is 
now  known  that  the  battle  of  the  Marne  was  won 
only  at  stupendous  sacrifice  of  life,  and  we  realize 
that  every  kilometer  gained  along  the  Aisne  means 
a  hecatomb  of  the  youth  of  France.  The  modern 
engines  of  war,  while  they  have  not  been  able  to  stop 
the  assaults  of  armies  one  upon  the  other,  have 
proved  themselves  far  more  destructive  than  any- 
thing that  has  yet  been  seen  in  the  history  of  the 
world. 

The  French  do  not  attempt  to  calculate  their 
losses.  They  gave  that  up  some  time  ago.  How 
many  are  killed  we  do  not  know.  We  cannot  even 
guess. 

October  tenth. 

Here  we  are  well  into  October,  with  the  military 
situation  very  favorable,  and  the  confidence  of  the 
people  in  the  success  of  our  arms  greatly  increased 
during  the  past  two  weeks. 

And  yet,  Paris  is  still  dull.  Business  is  still  para- 
lyzed. It  shows  more  than  ever  as  winter  ap- 
proaches. In  the  summer  time,  you  rather  expect 
things  to  be  dull:  but  to  go  down  the  Avenue  de 
1'Opera,  in  the  middle  of  an  October  afternoon,  and 
to  meet  neither  automobiles  nor  horsedrawn  vehicles 
in  the  whole  length  of  the  street  seems  incredible. 

266 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

Many  establishments  have  announced  their  reopen- 
ing, but  few  of  them  have  done  so.  We  still  have  to 
admit  that  there  is  little  prospect  of  things  "pick- 
ing up  in  the  near  future." 

Paris  is  so  much  the  city  of  pleasure  and  amuse- 
ment, where  the  light  side  of  life  is  shown  every- 
where, that  the  closing  of  cafes  and  the  absence  of 
theaters  and  music  halls  deprives  the  city  of  its  nor- 
mal aspect.  A  number  of  attempts  have  been  made 
to  reopen  the  theaters,  but  without  success.  Were 
it  not  for  the  cinematograph,  we  should  have  no 
form  of  diversion.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
I  have  not  heard  a  single  band.  One  does  not  play 
the  piano. 

There  are  two  reasons  for  this  stagnation  of  af- 
fairs, now  that  it  can  no  longer  be  laid  to  the  door 
of  the  German  invasion  and  the  lack  of  confidence 
in  the  success  of  the  armies. 

In  the  first  place,  our  dullness  is  the  dullness  of 
death.  The  slaughter  of  the  battles  has  been  so 
fearful  that  no  one  has  the  heart,  even  though  the 
Parisian  nature  cries  out  for  it,  to  be  merry.  If  it 
seems  a  sacrilege  to  play  the  piano,  what  would  it 
be  to  go  to  the  theater*?  When  there  is  not  a  single 
family  in  this  great  city,  which  has  not  one  of  its 
members  killed  or  wounded,  when  our  armies  are 
still  in  the  field  exposed  to  terrible  dangers,  is  this 
to  be  marveled  at*?  The  Frenchman  cannot  help  ef- 

267 


PARIS  REBORN 

fervescence  of  spirits.  He  laughs  through  his 
tears.1  There  is  no  glumness  in  Paris.  You  do  not 
feel  the  weighing  down  of  a  great  sorrow.  But 
there  is  silence,  and  it  is  a  silence  that  all  the  world 
respects.  Never  a  day  passes  without  numerous 
funerals  of  soldiers.  And  yet,  for  every  one  that  is 
buried  here  with  his  family  following  him,  a  thou- 
sand have  been  thrown  hastily  into  trenches  or  left 
to  rot  upon  the  fields. 

The  second  reason  is  that  people  have  no  money 
to  spend,  or,  if  they  have,  do  not  enjoy  spending 
it.  The  war  has  brought  about  such  overwhelming 
disaster  to  the  majority  of  the  people  that  their 
money  is  sufficient  only  for  the  barest  necessities. 
In  the  midst  of  this  financial  stress,  those  who  have 
oney  feel  a  delicacy  in  spending  as  they  do  in 
ordinary  times.  One  does  not  want  to  flaunt  luxu- 
ries in  the  face  of  so  great  misery.  As  Paris  is  the 
city  -par  excellence  for  luxuries,  it  is  natural,  then, 
that  this  cessation  of  buying  has  paralyzed  almost 
every  industry. 

Some  of  the  palatial  cafes  have  closed  their  doors 
because  the  people  will  not  buy  highly  priced  dishes 
and  highly  priced  wines,  and  they  cannot  afford  to 
keep  open  on  the  basis  of  serving  simpler  fare.  This 

1  Very  shortly  after  this  was  written,  music-halls  and  theaters 
began  to  reopen  timidly  with  programs  censored  by  the  Military 
Governor,  and  the  order  to  close  promptly  at  eleven  o'clock. 

268 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

same  thing  is  true  of  the  shops  which,  under  normal 
conditions,  do  a  thriving  business  in  the  sale  of 
wearing  apparel  and  articles  of  luxury. 

It  is  noticeable  already  that  the  styles  for  the 
coming  winter  are  going  to  be  very  simple.  The 
milliners  from  whom  ordinarily  one  could  not  buy  a 
hat  for  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  are  of- 
fering their  creations  for  sale  at  one-fifth  of  that 
price.  The  dressmakers  who  have  kept  open  are 
selling  the  simplest  kind  of  gowns  for  little  money. 
One  does  not  see  in  the  streets  beautifully  appointed 
automobiles  with  handsomely  gowned  women.  The 
wealthy  woman  of  yesterday  is  the  modest  bour- 
geoise  of  to-day,  riding  in  a  horse  cab,  and  wearing 
clothes  that  at  the  most  could  be  bought  for  five 
hundred  francs  from  hat  to  shoes. 

The  commission  for  the  reopening  of  industries  is 
doing  its  best  to  bring  about  the  return  of  normal 
life.  The  railroads  are  beginning  now  to  transport 
fuel,  merchandise  and  raw  materials  to  make  this 
possible.  I  have  heard  of  several  large  factories 
lately  which  have  notified  their  workmen  to  return 
the  middle  of  October. 

Athletic  organizations  of  Paris  are  encouraged  to 
resume  their  outdoor  sports  this  autumn.  The  Min- 
ister of  the  Interior  has  declared  that  it  is  a  sign  of 
patriotism  to  play  football  and  tennis,  and  that 
everything  that  can  be  done  by  the  athletic  clubs  to 

269 


PARIS  REBORN 

resume  their  activities  will  help  towards  reestablish- 
ing the  spirit  of  normality  so  rudely  interrupted  at 
the  beginning  of  August. 

As  the  tide  of  battle  rolls  away  from  Paris,  back 
into  Belgium  and  towards  the  Rhine,  this  great  city 
is  bound  to  resume  its  usual  life.  Far  from  being 
hurt  by  the  war,  Paris  will  be  benefited.  We  all 
look  to  see  Paris  enter  upon  a  period  of  tremendous 
prosperity,  not  only  in  business,  but  also  as  a  center 
of  study.  Victory  in  this  war  will  increase  the  pres- 
tige of  the  French,  and  will  make  Paris  more  than 
ever  the  Mecca  for  students  in  every  field  of  human 
knowledge  and  from  every  corner  of  the  globe. 

October  fifteenth. 

At  last  prices  are  beginning  to  show  the  effect  of 
the  war.  During  August  and  September  fresh  food 
products,  such  as  vegetables  and  fruits,  were  cheaper 
in  Paris  than  at  any  time  during  the  past  five  years. 
The  reason  for  this  was  that  so  many  people  had 
left  the  city,  especially  of  the  classes  which  buy  in 
large  amounts,  that  the  consumers  were  fewer  than 
the  products  put  upon  the  market.  After  the 
mobilization  was  over,  transportation  facilities  for 
victualing  Paris  were  restored  to  the  normal 
schedule.  Even  in  the  matter  of  milk,  the  supply 
has  been  ample  and  the  price  stationary. 

But  now  the  general  market  is  beginning  to  feel 
270 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

the  protracted  abnormal  conditions,  resulting  not 
only  from  a  state  of  war,  but  more  particularly  from 
the  presence  of  the  German  army  for  so  long  a  time 
in  the  north  and  northeast  of  France.  Since  the 
last  week  of  August,  the  Germans  have  held  firmly 
the  angle  from  the  Belgian  frontier,  to  Compiegne, 
to  the  German  frontier.  They  are  still  within  fifty 
miles  of  the  capital,  and  dominate  the  railways  of 
northern  and  northeastern  France. 

After  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  it  was  fondly 
hoped  that  the  Germans  would  be  driven  out  of 
France,  or  at  least  away  from  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  capital.  But  the  fall  of  Maubeuge,  followed 
now  by  the  occupation  of  Lille,  has  given  the  Ger- 
mans as  strong  a  position  in  northern  France  as  they 
have  in  Belgium  by  their  occupation  of  Liege,  Na- 
mur  and  Antwerp.  In  the  past  week,  they  seem  to 
have  been  able  to  extend  the  battle  front  by  the  way 
of  the  English  Channel.  The  winter  will  open  very 
inopportunely  for  France,  if  the  Germans  actually 
control  all  the  coast  line  from  Antwerp  to  Calais. 

Food  supplies,  of  course,  can  reach  the  city  with- 
out interruption  from  the  west  and  south.  Even 
if  prices  are  a  little  higher,  a  serious  deficit  of  food 
supplies  except  salt  and  sugar  is  not  to  be  feared. 
But  it  is  a  different  matter  in  regard  to  fuel.  Lately 
it  has  been  virtually  impossible  to  buy  coal  or 
wood.  I  have  had  to  wait  eight  to  ten  days  after 

271 


PARIS  REBORN 

giving  in  my  order  to  get  even  a  small  quantity  of 
wood.  My  coal  has  not  yet  come. 

The  burden,  as  usual,  will  be  borne  by  the  poor. 
A  slight  increase  in  the  price  of  food  means  to  them 
the  difference  between  being  able  to  get  along  and 
starving.  As  for  fuel,  those  who  can  afford  to  buy 
only  in  small  quantities  bear  far  more  than  their 
share  of  the  loss  and  the  difficulty  in  getting  coal, 
coke,  charcoal  and  wood  for  cooking  and  for  keep- 
ing themselves  warm. 

Only  an  overwhelming  victory  of  the  allied  armies 
within  the  next  month  can  prevent  a  winter  of  ex- 
treme deprivation  and  suffering  in  Paris. 

October  twenty-second. 

In  every  great  city,  there  is  a  large  class  of  people, 
unskilled  laborers,  who  live  from  hand  to  mouth, 
and  who  are  always  on  the  verge  of  poverty.  They 
know  how  to  manage  on  little,  and,  when  the  mis- 
fortune of  illness  or  of  unemployment  strikes  them, 
how  to  find  aid  to  tide  them  over  the  evil  days. 
Every  one  knows  people  of  this  sort  who  are  always 
at  the  very  end  of  their  resources.  But  they  never 
starve.  They  manage  to  get  sufficient  for  them- 
selves and  for  their  families — just  how  is  a  mystery, 
and  they  don't  explain.  This  class  does  not  find 
itself  at  the  present  moment  in  a  situation  different 
from  that  with  which  it  has  coped  for  years.  The 

272 


The  Quai  aux  Fleurs.     As  the  tide  of  battle  rolls  away  from  Paris,  this  great 
city  resumes  its  usual  life 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

war,  in  fact,  has  made  means  of  subsistence  more 
plentiful  for  them ! 

But  the  people  who  are  to  be  pitied  are  those  who 
have  never  before  known  what  it  is  to  be  actually 
"up  against  it."  They  are  skilled  laborers,  or  peo- 
ple of  the  middle  classes  whose  business  affairs  have 
always  brought  them  in  sufficient  for  their  needs  dur- 
ing times  of  peace.  When  they  found  them- 
selves suddenly  left  without  employment  and  with- 
out money  by  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  they  were 
able  at  first  to  get  along  by  using  the  money  they 
happened  to  have  in  hand.  But  now  no  money  is 
coming  in,  and,  even  if  they  have  savings,  the 
moratorium  prevents  their  drawing  money  from  the 
bank.  There  is  no  market  for  the  sale  of  bonds  or 
securities  they  may  happen  to  possess.  Banks  are 
not  lending  money.  I  have  met  many  people  with 
comfortable  homes,  well  dressed  and  prosperous 
looking,  who  are  absolutely  without  means. 

In  talking  the  other  day  with  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  successful  art  photographers  of  Paris,  I  discov- 
ered by  accident  that  all  the  money  she  had  in  the 
world  was  two  francs.  She  had  recently  adopted  a 
baby,  and  now  has  nothing  for  feeding  it.  Refus- 
ing to  beg,  she  had  been  living  by  selling  at  absurd 
prices  things  in  her  apartment.  She  went  one  day 
to  try  newspaper-selling.  Being  well  dressed,  she 
had  a  terrible  experience.  When  she  started  to  sell, 

275 


PARIS  REBORN 

she  was  accused  by  the  newsboys  and  newsgirls  of 
wanting  to  rob  them  of  their  only  means  of  subsist- 
ence, and  was  insulted  until  strength  and  nerve 
failed.  She  had  to  give  up.  This  is  one  of  thou- 
sands of  cases,  of  which  one  hears  only  by  accident. 
In  my  experience,  I  have  generally  found  that  the 
person  who  is  without  money  through  no  fault  of 
his  own  is  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  ask  for 
help.  Almost  invariably,  opportunities  for  charity 
which  come  to  one  through  the  solicitation  of  the  ob- 
ject of  charity  are  merely  invitations  to  waste  your 
money. 

The  classes  that  are  hardest  hit  in  Paris  to-day  are 
the  theatrical  people  and  the  artists.  No  theaters 
or  music  halls  or  cafes  are  running.  There  is  not  in 
Paris  the  opportunity  for  a  singer,  an  actor,  a  dancer 
or  a  musician  to  make  any  money  at  all.  This  class 
is  generally  helpless  in  every  other  way.  Children 
are  trained  for  the  stage  and  for  music  from  an  early 
age,  and  know  nothing  else.  An  effort  is  being 
made  to  prevent  these  thousands  of  helpless  theatri- 
cal people  from  starving  by  the  establishment  of 
cantines,  where  meals  are  served  for  a  few  sous  on 
the  presentation  of  a  card  from  a  committee  which 
has  carefully  investigated  each  case.  The  Jardin 
de  Paris  on  the  Champs-Elysees  has  been  turned 
into  a  huge  refectory. 

Artists  and  art  students  are  proverbially  poor. 
276 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

A  great  many  of  them  are  dependent  upon  remit- 
tances from  their  families  or  the  occasional  sale  of  a 
picture.  This  applies  even  to  those  who  do  very 
good  work.  Remittances  are  not  coming  to  Paris 
now,  and  pictures  are  not  being  bought.  In  the 
Montparnasse  Quarter,  there  are  many  cantines  for 
artists.  A  committee  has  been  formed  to  help  those 
who  find  themselves  now  in  destitution.  It  is  hoped 
that  this  work  will  result  in  the  elimination  from 
the  Quarter  of  a  horde  of  incapables,  who  have  for 
years  been  using  art  as  an  excuse  for  loafing.  The 
committee  knows  these  cases.  Argument  has  always 
failed  heretofore  to  prevail  upon  the  idlers  of  the 
Quarter  to  go  home  or  get  a  job.  Now  the  oppor- 
tunity has  come  to  enforce  the  point  of  view  of  their 
friends  upon  many  who  have  been  posing  as  students 
or  as  artists  just  about  to  "arrive." 

Art  students  are  not  the  only  foreigners  who  have 
been  inconvenienced  by  the  sudden  outbreak  of  war. 
Paris  is  full  of  students  from  every  country  of  Eu- 
rope who  depend  upon  a  monthly  remittance  from 
home.  The  remittances  have  stopped.  Men  stu- 
dents can  enlist  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  But 
women  are  "up  against  it"  in  the  very  toughest 
sense  of  the  phrase.  I  have  seen  many  girls,  espe- 
cially from  Russia  and  Poland,  who  have  nothing  to 
eat  and  no  friends.  They  cannot  benefit  by  the 
measures  of  public  relief  which  the  Government  has 

277 


PARIS  REBORN 

taken  for  its  own  women  and  children  without  re- 
sources, and  by  the  cantines  established  for  special 
categories  of  sufferers.  They  are  too  proud  to  beg 
and  too  good  to  do  worse :  so  they  starve.  What  it 
must  be  to  be  a  stranger,  starving  in  Paris ! 

Every  tragedy  has  its  lighter  side.  The  wards 
of  the  Chinese  Government  studying  in  Paris  are 
mostly  sons  of  mandarins — young  men  who  find 
themselves  absolutely  helpless  when  the  monthly  re- 
mittance does  not  arrive.  They  have  applied  to 
their  embassy  and  to  their  consulate  in  vain. 

In  the  old  aristocratic  Rue  de  Babylone  (hidden 
by  a  wall  unless  you  know  where  to  look  for  it)  is 
a  wonderful  Chinese  pagoda — I  use  the  word  for 
want  of  a  better  one,  and  plead  ignorance  as  to  its 
proper  use  here.  At  any  rate,  beyond  that  wall  in 
that  queer  oriental  house  is  the  home  of  the  Chinese 
Ambassador  to  France.  Last  night  a  party  of  sixty 
hungry  students  went  to  see  their  country's  repre- 
sentative. They  did  not  listen  to  the  protests  of 
the  concierge,  and  he  was  not  quick  enough  in  trying 
to  shut  the  door.  They  got  inside,  invaded  the 
Embassy  and  found  a  delicious  meal  in  the  dining- 
room  awaiting  His  Excellency.  Not  only  did  they 
eat  everything  on  the  table,  but,  being  sixty,  they 
filled  out  a  good  round  banquet  by  raiding  the  pan- 
try. 

While  the  students  were  thus  occupied,  the  Am- 

278 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

bassador  returned.  Hearing  from  the  concierge 
what  was  happening  inside,  he  decided  that  prudence 
was  the  better  part  of  valor,  and  retired  to  a  nearby 
restaurant  for  dinner  and  to  telephone  the  police. 

It  took  more  than  words  to  get  the  students  out. 
I  understand  that  the  police  did  not  go  at  their  task 
very  strenuously.  There  is  nothing  that  a  Parisian 
enjoys,  even  though  he  be  an  officer  of  the  law,  more 
than  a  good  joke. 

Before  he  slept  that  night,  His  Excellency  sent  a 
wire  to  Peking  for  funds.  The  telegraph  operator 
declares  that  it  was  marked  "Urgent." 

November  eighteenth. 

There  are  two  grave  questions  disturbing  the  al- 
ready disturbed  economic  condition  of  France,  and 
nowhere  are  they  more  clearly  seen  than  in  Paris 
to-day.  A  large  number  of  workingmen  and  em- 
ployers are  profiting  by  the  state  of  war  to  take 
advantage  of  each  other. 

The  most  fit  in  the  nation  have  gone  to  war. 
Those  that  have  been  refused  for  army  service  are 
either  unfit  from  the  standpoint  of  some  physical  de- 
fect or  are  beyond  the  age  of  conscription.  Conse- 
quently, even  in  the  limited  amount  of  industry 
that  is  being  carried  on,  it  seems  impossible  for  the 
employers  of  good  faith  to  get  capable  workmen  or 
to  make  it  profitable  for  them  to  carry  on  their  busi- 

279 


PARIS  REBORN 

ness.  In  most  industries,  it  is  less  of  a  loss  to  the 
employer  to  keep  shut  up  entirely  than  to  carry  on 
business  shorthanded  or  with  incapables. 

But  there  are  employers  who  have  the  yellow 
streak  in  them,  and  are  deliberately  using  the  war 
as  an  excuse  for  cutting  down  the  salaries  of  their 
employees  to  the  lowest  possible  point.  Many  man- 
ufacturers who  are  still  doing  good  business  have  re- 
duced the  wages  of  those  who  work  for  them  fifty 
per  cent.  Of  course,  no  blame  can  be  attached  to 
the  employer  who  finds  himself  embarrassed  by  the 
war,  and  unable  to  give  employment  at  all,  unless 
he  does  so  at  reduced  wages.  But  there  are  a  good 
many  lines  of  business  that  the  war  has  prospered. 

An  investigation  by  some  Paris  newspapers  of  the 
wage  rolls  of  factories  where  war  supplies  are  being 
turned  out  has  revealed  the  fact  that  employers  have 
been  getting  work  out  of  their  workmen  for  half 
pay,  when  they  themselves  are  earning  more  than 
under  normal  conditions.  This  exploitation  has 
been  called  to  the  attention  of  the  military  authori- 
ties. The  workingmen's  unions  argue  that  the 
Government  is  justified  in  establishing  a  minimum 
wage  where  it  is  ascertained  that  the  employer  has 
not  been  affected  adversely  by  the  war,  just  as  it 
has  established  a  maximum  price  for  foodstuffs. 

On  the  other  hand,  much  fault  lies  with  the  work- 
ingmen  in  this  large  city  who  have  not  been  called 

280 


A  CITY  SUFFERING 

to  the  army.  Many  thousands  of  them  take  the 
present  situation  as  an  excuse  for  not  working,  even 
when  there  is  work  for  them  to  do.  Every  day 
workmen  are  advertised  for,  and  more  and  more 
positions  are  opening  to  men,  as  available  men  be- 
come fewer.  And  yet,  if  you  go  at  meal-time  to 
any  one  of  the  thousands  of  charitable  agencies  in 
Paris,  you  will  see  any  number  of  husky  looking 
men,  standing  in  line  with  their  kettle  for  soup. 
They  are  taking  the  war  as  an  excuse  for  a  pro- 
tracted period  of  rest.  They  find  they  can  get 
enough  soup  and  bread  to  keep  them  going.  Why 
then  work1? 

It  takes  a  situation  like  this  to  show  people  how 
difficult  is  the  problem  of  alleviating  human  misery. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  say  that  there  are  plenty  who 
are  in  want,  and  to  gather  money  and  clothing  and 
other  things  for  distribution.  But  it  requires  an 
unusual  amount  of  ability  and  perspicacity  to  be  a 
successful  worker  among  the  unfortunate  and  poor. 
For  the  distribution  of  relief  is  a  hundred  times 
harder  than  gathering  funds  for  relief.  One  never 
realizes  how  hard  it  is  to  get  in  touch  with  real  want 
until  he  tries  to  distribute  relief  funds. 


281 


XXIX 

THE    REFUGEES 

September  twenty-fourth. 

IT  was  just  four  weeks  ago  that  they  began  to 
come,  bringing  the  first  news  of  defeat.  Refu- 
gees are  the  heralds  of  the  enemy's  triumph.  It 
has  been  in  Paris  just  as  it  was  in  Constantinople 
after  Kirk  Kilisse  and  Lule  Burgas.  Only  the 
names  of  the  scenes  of  disaster  are  different.  Are 
they  Charleroi  and  St.  Quentin*?  We  are  still  in 
the  dark.  For  even  since  the  tide  turned  the  Gov- 
ernment has  not  allowed  the  publication  of  the 
events  so  nobly  redeemed  from  the  Marne  to  the 
Aisne,  in  the  valleys  of  the  Grand  Morin  and  the 
Ourcq.  At  the  end  of  October,  1912,  the  Seras- 
kerat,  busily  engaged  in  packing  its  precious  papers 
for  Brusa,  gave  out  the  news  that  "all  was  going 
well  on  the  front."  But  the  refugees  came  pouring 
into  Stamboul.  Irrefutable  denial  of  the  official 
statements!  At  the  end  of  August,  1914,  the  Rue 
St.  Dominique,  busily  engaged  in  packing  its  pre- 
cious papers  for  Bordeaux,  gave  out  the  news  that 

282 


THE  REFUGEES 

"all  was  going  well  at  the  front."  But  the  refu- 
gees came  pouring  into  Paris.  Irrefutable  denial, 
again,  of  official  statements!  Tchataldja  saved 
the  Turks  and  confounded  the  Bulgarians;  the 
Marne  saved  the  French  and  confounded  the  Ger- 
mans. How  history  repeats  itself! 

But  in  Turkey  the  eleventh-hour  victory,  or  check 
to  the  forward  march  of  the  enemy,  did  not  save 
the  refugees.  In  France  it  has  been  the  same. 
Sacrificed,  perhaps,  to  strategy  in  the  latter  case, 
though  certainly  not  in  the  former,  the  war  to  the 
refugees  has  been  all  horror  from  the  beginning,  and 
has  brought  no  day  of  joy  and  exultation  in  the  sud- 
den turn  of  the  tide. 

We  thought  in  Constantinople  that  we  should 
never  live  to  see  a  repetition  of  the  heart-rending 
scenes  (I  use  a  hackneyed  expression  for  once  cor- 
rectly) of  aged  and  infirm,  of  women  and  children, 
without  clothing,  without  food,  without  shelter, 
wandering  through  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  their 
faces  stamped  with  a  fear  that  was  fresh  and  not 
yet  allayed,  with  a  grief  for  members  of  the  family 
killed  or  missing,  with  a  hopelessness  that  alms  and 
kind  words  of  cheer  could  not  lift.  For  the  disaster 
of  husband  and  sons  shot,  of  homes  pillaged  and 
burned,  of  crops  destroyed,  of  business  ruined,  of  ex- 
ile in  utter  destitution,  puts  the  refugee  beyond  the 
comfort  of  the  sympathy  of  one  who  can  say,  "Yes,  I 

283 


PARIS  REBORN 

know:  for  I  have  suffered  as  you  are  suffering." 
For  none  can  say  that  who  has  not  himself  been  a 
refugee  from  war,  from  fire,  from  flood,  from  earth- 
quake, from  pestilence. 

No,  I  must  qualify  this  statement :  I  must  limit  it 
to  refugee  from  war.  For  fire,  flood,  earthquake, 
pestilence — these  are  sudden  calamities  which  pass 
as  suddenly,  and  are  accepted  with  resignation,  be- 
cause they  are  beyond  human  control.  But  war 
does  not  pass  quickly.  It  follows  the  victim:  the 
fear  remains.  And  it  is  not  accepted:  there  is  no 
resignation.  For  war  is  man-willed  and  man-made 
— a  breaking  out  of  primitive  passions  that  civiliza- 
tion has  not  conquered.  It  is  man  in  collusion  with 
the  devil  who  fights.  God  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  The  victim  suffers — and  continues  to  suffer. 

The  French  refugees  hope  soon  to  go  home. 
For  many  the  hope  has  already  been  realized.  The 
Germans  are  retreating.  Most  of  those  who  stay 
do  not  feel  exiled.  Paris  is  home  to  every  French- 
man. 

But  the  Belgians !  However  much  may  be  done 
to  minister  lovingly  to  the  wants  of  these  poor  peo- 
ple, the  alleviation  of  their  mental  suffering  is  im- 
possible. Nothing  grips  one's  heart  more  than  to 
see  little  children  still  under  the  spell  of  the  terror 
of  the  awful  scenes  they  have  witnessed.  To  talk 
to  children  who  had  been  driven  from  burning 

284 


THE  REFUGEES 

homes,  who  had  been  spattered  with  the  blood  of 
father  and  brother  and  mother,  who  even  carried 
wounds  on  their  own  little  bodies,  was  my  sad  task 
in  Asia  Minor  during  the  Adana  massacres.  But 
this  is  Paris.  This  is  Europe.  This  is  the  Chris- 
tian world.  And  yet  those  old  painful  memories 
live  again,  and  I  see  once  more  baby  faces  to  which 
a  smile  cannot  be  coaxed. 

Think  what  it  must  mean  to  have  no  husband, 
no  grown  sons,  no  home,  no  possessions,  no  money, 
no  chance  to  work,  and,  placed  against  that,  the  re- 
sponsibility of  several  little  mouths  to  feed.  To 
all  of  us,  perhaps,  at  one  time  or  other  in  our  lives, 
the  past  has  been  naught  and  the  present  black. 
But  the  Belgian  refugees  have  no  future.  We  can 
give  them  no  hope.  When  they  ask,  "When  shall 
we  be  able  to  go  back  to  our  homes'?"  there  is  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  turn  aside  and  pretend  that  one  has 
not  heard  the  question. 

Say  what  they  will  about  anticipation  of  an- 
other's intention,  about  necessity,  about  imperative 
considerations  of  national  safety,  the  men  who  or- 
dered, and  the  men  who  obeyed  the  order  for,  the 
invasion  of  Belgium  will  never  be  able  to  explain, 
will  never  be  able  to  justify  themselves.  For  the 
Belgians,  ghosts,  prisoners  and  exiles,  have  already 
come  before  the  tribunal  of  world-wide  public  opin- 
ion. The  German  cause  is  lost  before  it  is  pleaded, 

285 


PARIS  REBORN 

lost  before  it  is  fought  to  a  decisive  issue.  And, 
as  if  there  were  not  Belgians  enough  to  accuse  and 
condemn,  there  are  the  three-times-within-a-cen- 
tury-similarly-sinned-against  people  of  Northern 
France.1 

When  we  first  saw  the  refugees  (and  one  well  un- 
derstands that  they  must  have  come  in  great  num- 
bers before  they  were  noticeable  in  a  city  like  Paris), 
they  were  all  supposed  to  be  Belgians.  We  took 
it  for  granted.  We  had  reason  to:  for  they  were 
of  the  unmistakable  Flemish  peasant  type.  Their 
French,  if  they  could  speak  the  language  at  all,  was 
halting.  But  soon  we  began  to  notice  the  Lillois. 
Then  they  came  from  Arras,  from  Amiens,  from 
Soissons,  from  Senlis,  from  Beauvais,  from  Com- 

1  Aside  from  the  incalculable  and  irreparable  material  damage 
done  to  Reims,  Soissons,  Senlis,  Albert,  Arras,  and  other  towns, 
and  to  communes  of  lesser  importance,  the  Germans  have  levied 
severe  war  contributions  in  cash  and  army  supplies  upon  the  cities 
of  Northern  France.  They  have  destroyed  factories  in  the  region 
of  Lille  and  Maubeuge,  and  have  carried  away  raw  material.  Most 
of  the  cities  and  communes  that  are  suffering  these  losses  were  vic- 
tims of  the  German  invasions  of  1814  and  1870.  A  number  of  com- 
munes are  still  paying  off  the  loans  contracted  to  meet  the  German 
•war  contributions  of  1870.  And  now  they  have  been  mulcted 
again!  The  most  striking  illustration  is  the  city  of  Amiens,  which 
owes  still,  as  a  municipal  debt,  over  three  million  francs,  due  to 
meeting  the  contribution  of  war  levied  upon  Amiens  in  1870.  The 
citizens  of  Amiens  have  been  paying  ever  since  1870  a  per  capita 
tax  in  interest  alone  of  fifty  centimes  per  year  for  the  purchase  of 
immunity  at  that  time.  I  read  that  they  are  now  saddled  with 
another  million! 

286 


'•  i%'  y 

s4-J 


In  the  Latin  Quarter.     En  queue  at  a  soup  cantine 


THE  REFUGEES 

piegne,  from  Chateau-Thierry,  from  Chantilly,  from 
Meaux.1  As  the  German  invasion  spread  and  drew 
nearer  Paris,  the  refugees  appeared  in  our  streets 
with  their  carts,  their  salvage  of  household  goods, 
their  cattle,  their  barnyard  fowls.  As  the  refugees 
poured  in,  the  froussards  poured  out.  The  two 
streams  met  at  the  railway  stations  and  the  city 
gates,  each  fleeing  before  the  Germans — but  in  a 
different  direction! 

The  big  heart  of  the  larger  and  nobler  Paris, 
which  showed  no  fear  for  personal  safety,  no  anxiety 
for  personal  comfort,  no  worry  for  "the  treasures 
laid  up  on  earth,"  has  been  devoting  itself  these 
past  four  weeks  to  the  wounded  and  the  refugees. 
I  have  always  loved  the  "French  of  the  people"  that 
one  sees  exemplified  so  worthily  by  the  population  of 
Paris,  the  French  who  work  hard  for  their  living 
and  get  more  out  of  life  than  any  other  people  in 
the  world — the  real  Parisians,  sober,  industrious, 
cheerful,  warm-hearted,  generous  without  advertise- 
ment, moral  without  cant.  I  rejoiced  in  the  un- 
paralleled example  of  civic  courage  they  gave  to  the 
world  during  the  Great  Flood  of  1910.  But  I  love 

1 1  speak  of  these  cities  and  towns  as  centers  of  regions.  Most 
of  the  refugees  were,  of  course,  country  people  from  isolated  farms 
and  hamlets.  The  city  people  thought  they  had  nothing  to  fear. 
In  all  instances,  alas!  their  optimism  was  not  well  founded.  There 
has  been  a  difference  between  1870  and  1914,  not  to  the  credit  of 
the  latter. 

289 


PARIS  REBORN 

them  more  now,  and  I  am  glad  that  it  is  my  privilege 
to  have  my  home  and  raise  my  family  among  such 
a  people. 

The  Parisians  have  had  no  time  to  think  of  what 
might  have  been — of  what  might  yet  be — in  store 
for  them.  They  have  forgotten  their  own  suffer- 
ings, their  own  cares,  their  own  financial  burdens, 
in  the  face  of  the  greater  suffering  that  has  been  so 
suddenly  and  so  abundantly  revealed  to  them. 
While  they  waited  for  the  wounded,  who,  for  some 
mysterious  reason,  have  not  come,  they  have  min- 
istered to  the  refugees. 

Each  arrondissement  of  Paris  is  vying  with  the 
others  in  providing  clothing  and  warm  food  and 
shelter,  in  caring  for  the  sick  and  the  babies.  There 
is  more  than  generosity.  There  is  tenderness. 
What  a  reflection  upon  our  modern  Anglo-Saxon 
civilization  that  we  have  taken  the  original  King 
James'  version  meaning  out  of  the  word  charity,  and 
have  limited  it  to  something  impersonal,  and,  since 
impersonal,  ergo  repellent!  In  French,  charite  is 
still  defined  as  love  of  God  and  fellowman.  So 
there  is  more  than  generosity.  There  is  tenderness. 
I  could  fill  a  book  with  what  I  have  seen  in  my  own 
quartier  of  the  poor  helping  the  poor,  of  the  charity 
that  means  taking  the  object  of  charity  into  your 
own  home  and  sharing  with  him  your  crust.  When 
you  go  among  the  common  people  of  Paris,  you  find 

290 


THE  REFUGEES 

that  every  one  has  done  it,  and  has  done  it  as  the 
perfectly  natural  thing  to  do.  It  is  not  only  a  civic 
duty,  it  is  a  civic  privilege. 

Who  wrote  that  the  French  were  a  degenerate 
race*?  Oh,  the  presumption  of  ignorance!  I  wish 
I  could  take  the  slanderer  around  Paris  to-day. 

I  wish  I  could  show  him  the  Cirque  de  Paris, 
whose  arena  is  famous  in  the  world  of  sport,  turned 
into  a  hospice  for  the  refugees,  where  none  applies 
in  vain  for  a  roof  over  his  head,  for  medical  attend- 
ance, for  food,  for  clothing.  The  Government  has 
made  no  appropriation,  nor  has  the  municipality. 
Out  of  the  gifts  of  the  people  of  the  neighborhood 
all  who  come  are  ministered  unto.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter how  many  come.  There  is  enough  for  all.  And 
the  first  service  rendered  to  them  is  the  cutting  off 
of  shoes  and  rags,  and  the  washing  of  the  weary 
bruised  feet  by  women  volunteers. 

I  wish  I  could  take  the  slanderer  to  the  old 
Seminary  of  Saint  Sulpice,  which  is  soon  to  be  the 
new  Luxembourg  Picture  Gallery.  There  other 
refugees  find  a  haven.  The  mother,  footsore  and 
desperate  from  the  baby's  continual  cry  for  milk 
and  the  other  children's  cry  for  bread,  is  met  with 
outstretched  arms,  and  greeted  with  brimming  eyes, 
brave  smile  and  a  kiss.  The  kiss  does  more  to  renew 
her  courage  than  food.  But  there  is  food,  too. 
And  do  you  know,  Mr.  Slanderer,  how  that  food  has 

291 


PARIS  REBORN 

been  cooked?  Across  from  the  Seminary  is  the 
Mairie  of  the  Sixth  Arrondissement.  The  police- 
men, attached  to  the  poste  there,  are  giving  up  in 
turns  their  rest  and  meal  hour  to  do  the  cooking. 
When  the  influx  was  greatest,  and  the  soup  portion 
would  have  given  out,  the  policemen  contributed 
more  than  their  meal  hour.  Their  meal,  too,  was 
slipped  into  the  pot,  and  none  knew  but  God. 


292 


XXX 

SPIES 

September  twenty-fifth. 

DURING  the  first  week  of  the  war,  I  saw  a 
number  of  man  hunts.  Frequently  it  was  an 
altogether  innocent  person  that  was  mauled  by  the 
crowd;  in  more  than  one  instance,  in  fact,  I  saw 
Frenchmen — Parisians  who  had  never  been  out  of 
the  city  and  had  never  spoken  to  a  German  in  their 
lives — badly  beaten.  One  could  not  reason  with 
the  crowd. 

After  all,  the  excitement  and  the  nervousness  were 
not  unnatural.  Germany  let  loose  the  war,  and 
even  before  it  was  declared  her  troops  were  over  our 
borders.  They  were  boasting  that  they  would  be 
in  Paris  in  a  fortnight.  The  knowledge  that  there 
were  thousands  of  Germans  in  the  city  sending  out 
information  to  aid  the  invaders  made  Parisians  sus- 
picious. 

It  is  curious  how  suspicion  works.  When  you 
are  thinking  hard  about  a  thing  or  looking  for  it 
(that  is,  anything  except  money)  you  see  it  all 
around  you.  Whenever  I  am  waiting  anywhere 

293 


PARIS  REBORN 

for  some  one,  I  see  him  a  dozen  times  in  the  crowd 
before  he  really  arrives.  In  our  mental  processes, 
we  habitually  jump  to  conclusions.  It  is  a  wonder 
that  we  hit  things  right  as  often  as  we  do.  I  re- 
member in  those  first  few  days  how  I  would  sit  on 
the  terrace  of  a  cafe,  looking  at  my  neighbors  and 
scanning  carefully  the  faces  of  those  who  passed. 
I  could  swear  that  every  other  man  was  a  German. 
I  was  positive  of  it.  The  Gallic  type  of  coun- 
tenance seemed  to  have  disappeared.  When  I  got 
over  thinking  about  Germans  and  spies,  I  never  sus- 
pected any  one  I  met  of  being  a  "Boche." 

So  it  was  with  all  the  Parisians.  The  mad  period 
of  man-hunting  was  a  phase  that  passed  quickly. 
There  were  other  things  to  think  about.  We  heard 
no  more  about  the  Germans  in  Paris.  Some  had 
been  expelled  from  France;  others  had  been  sent 
into  detention  camps;  but  the  majority  of  them  re- 
mained and  prudently  kept  under  cover.  Only  if 
a  neighbor  had  a  personal  spite  against  some  one 
and  denounced  him  at  the  police  station,  was  a 
German  molested.1 

1  More  than  fifty  thousand  Germans  were  living  in  Paris  at  the 
moment  the  war  broke  out.  Many  who  did  not  conform  to  the 
order  of  the  Government  to  report  to  their  police  station  within 
forty-eight  hours  of  the  beginning  of  the  mobilization  were  hunted 
down  mercilessly,  and  haled  before  courts  martial  as  spies.  At  the 
moment  wild  rumors  gained  credence  in  Paris  that  German  spies 
had  been  shot.  The  most  persistent  canard  had  it  that  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  fashionable  hotel  on  the  Champs-Elysees  was  caught 

294 


SPIES 

That  was  while  we  thought  we  were  winning. 
When  we  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  we  were  not  win- 
ning and  that  Von  Kluck  was  on  his  way  to  see  us, 
there  were  more  engrossing  subjects  for  the  Parisians 
and  the  authorities  to  think  about  than  the  ques- 
tion of  what  to  do  with  the  Germans  who  had 
been  granted  permis  de  sejour  to  remain  in 
Paris. 

These  two  weeks  that  have  followed  the  Battle  of 
the  Marne  have  witnessed  the  growth  of  a  feeling 
of  bitterness  and  hostility  toward  the  Germans  as  a 
nation  naturally  translated  into  a  hatred  of  the 
Germans  as  individuals.  This  hatred  is  differ- 
ent from  the  effervescent  demonstrations  against 
the  Germans  during  the  first  week  of  the  war. 
Nothing  effervescent  is  serious.  The  more  the  ef- 
fervescence the  less  the  effect  (of  course,  I  except 
champagne!).  So  the  rowdyism  of  August  second 
and  third  had  no  consequences. 

We  heard  about  the  atrocities  and  the  destruction 
wrought  by  the  German  army  in  Belgium  in  August, 
and  we  were  as  indignant  as  it  was  possible  to  be 
over  the  sufferings  and  misfortunes  of  others.  But 
we  know  how  superficial  that  indignation  was  when 
we  contrast  it  with  the  way  the  suffering  of  our  own 

receiving  the  messages  from  the  Eiffel  Tower  by  means  of  a  wire- 
less installation  upon  his  roof,  and  shot  on  the  spot.  This  was 
afterwards  formally  denied.  No  German  spy  was  killed  in  Paris: 
none  was  condemned  to  death. 

295 


PARIS  REBORN 

people,  the  destruction  of  our  own  monuments  stirs 
us  up.  The  German  who  harmed  the  Belgians  was 
a  bad  fellow :  the  German  who  harms  the  French  is 
the  devil  incarnate.  So  it  goes. 

Since  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  the  newspapers 
have  done  their  work.  They  have  spread  far  and 
wide  the  news  of  what  has  happened  to  the  people 
and  to  the  cities  of  northern  and  eastern  France. 
Every  German  in  Paris  is  anathema.  He  is  a  spy: 
and  if  there  is  n't  proof  enough  to  court-martial  him, 
he  can  at  least  be  shut  up  in  prison. 

But  why  a  spy"?  Germans  who  have  been  living 
here  for  long  years,  whose  interests  and  associations 
are  wholly  in  Paris  and  with  the  Parisians — ought 
they  to  be  treated  as  spies'?  Is  not  prejudice  and 
passion  at  work*?  Ought  noncombatant  Germans 
to  suffer  for  what  the  armies  of  their  country,  for 
which  they  are  not  responsible,  have  done*?  Is  there 
any  rhyme  or  reason  in  the  wholesale  arrest  of  thou- 
sands who  have  given  no  ground  for  suspicion,  and 
many  of  whom  can  hardly  speak  the  language,  if 
they  speak  it  at  all,  of  the  country  of  which  they  are 
technically  subjects? 

If  I  did  not  live  in  Paris,  if  I  did  not  understand 
and  appreciate  the  motives  underlying  the  arrest  and 
sending  to  detention  camps  of  all  German  subjects, 
I  might,  as  other  correspondents  have  done,  write  in 
protest  against  the  wholesale  decree  that  is  result- 

296 


SPIES 

ing  in  so  much  suffering  for  its  innocent  victims. 
Many  of  them  are  innocent  victims. 

When  it  comes  to  the  individual  case  in  which  my 
personal  sympathies  are  enlisted  by  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  the  victim,  I  have  protested.  I 
have  called  the  law  an  outrage  because  it  does  not 
discriminate. 

For  example,  a  young  woman  whom  I  knew  came 
to  me  in  great  distress,  and  begged  me  to  in- 
tercede for  her.  Married  to  a  German  who  is  a 
chauffeur  in  England,  she  is  a  Parisian,  daughter  of 
a  veteran  of  1870,  granddaughter  of  a  colonel  in 
the  Due  d'Aumale's  glorious  Algerian  army.  She  had 
in  her  hand  her  acte  de  naissance  to  prove  that  she 
was  French,  and  the  papers  to  substantiate  her 
statements  about  her  father  and  grandfather.  I 
went  with  her  to  the  commissaire.  He  was  ob- 
durate. Her  marriage  to  a  German  was  sufficient 
to  apply  the  decree  against  her.  "Nothing  to  dis- 
cass,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  and  when  he  saw  that  I 
did  not  take  this  as  final  and  was  about  to  continue 
my  plea  for  her,  he  got  up  and  slammed  his  fist 
down  upon  the  desk,  and  cried  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  every  one  in  the  room,  "Were 
you  the  Minister  of  War  himself,  you  could  not 
succeed  in  keeping  this  woman  from  going  into  the 
detention  camp!" 

The  commissaire  was  right.  There  could  be  no 
297 


PARIS  REBORN 

exceptions,  and  the  innocent  would  have  to  suffer 
with  the  guilty. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  urge  that  Great  Britain  and 
Germany  are  showing  no  such  intolerance,  and  have 
not  molested  the  women  and  children  of  alien 
enemies.  But  neither  Great  Britain  nor  Germany 
is  invaded.  The  case  is  not  analogous.  There  has 
been  spying  here,  and  plenty  of  it.  It  has  been  car- 
ried on  in  the  most  unbelievable  ways,  with  the  most 
uncanny  and  devilish  skill,  and  by  the  most  unsus- 
pected persons.  This  spying  has  aided  the  Germans 
during  the  past  month.  It  is  aiding  them  now. 
France  is  fighting  for  national  existence.  Paris  is 
still  the  objective  of  the  German  armies.  There 
is  no  way  of  separating  the  sheep  from  the  goats. 
All  must  go. 

So  the  Germans  of  Paris,  women  and  children  as 
well  as  men,  are  leaving  us.  The  scenes  in  the  dif- 
ferent commissariats.,  where  they  were  called  for  the 
revocation  of  their  permis  de  sejour,  awaken  pity 
for  these  victims  of  the  war,  most  of  them  poor, 
honest  folk,  whose  whole  life  is  being  ruined  by  the 
war.  They  are  leaving  by  trains  from  St.  Lazare. 
They  do  not  know  where  they  are  going.  The  fu- 
ture is  black.  Most  of  them  love  France — at  least, 
they  love  the  Paris  that  is  home  to  them — far  more 
than  they  do  Germany.  But  they  must  suffer  for 
the  sins  of  their  countrymen:  they  must  suffer  for 

298 


SPIES 

the  base  treachery  of  those  among  them,  safe  from 
detection,  who  have  eaten  the  salt  of  Paris  while 
betraying  Paris. 

There  is  something  dramatic  about  their  exit. 
For,  as  the  German  spies  and  suspected  spies  leave 
Paris,  they  pass  at  the  railway  station  the  refugees 
coming  in  from  the  north.  In  each  pitiful  line, 
going  out  in  terror  and  coming  in  from  terror,  there 
is  the  same  succession  of  husbandless  women  with 
children  and  babies.  Their  men  are  righting  at  the 
front,  against  each  other  mostly.  The  lines  pass, 
and  there  is  hardness  of  heart  on  both  sides.  You 
see  it  in  the  faces.  You  see  it  in  the  weary  shoul- 
ders, drawn  up  for  the  moment  in  scorn  and  defiance, 
in  the  attempt  to  prove  oneself  unbroken,  in  the 
attempt  to  prove  the  other  the  transgressor.  But 
sinner  and  sinned  against,  the  suffering  is  the  same. 
This  is  war. 


299 


XXXI 

THE    NEW    KULTURKAMPF 

September  twenty-sixth. 
Germans  have  been  instilling,  little  by 
JL  little,  their  poison  into  the  hearts  of  all  peo- 
ples. If  it  is  true  that  the  soul  of  a  race  is  in  its 
language,  this  is  still  more  true  of  its  music.  Lis- 
ten to  the  songs  of  Naples,  Spain,  Russia,  Sweden, 
and  Arabia :  are  they  not  the  very  portraits  of  these 
peoples'?  Do  they  not  tell  more  about  their  nature 
than  all  the  commentaries'?  We  have  no  more  use 
for  the  German  language,  we  do  not  wish  to  speak 
it,  we  do  not  wish  to  learn  it,  we  do  not  wish  to 
sing  it.  And  yet  some  are  saying  that  we  do  not 
need  to  give  up  Richard  Wagner.  How  many 
times  will  it  be  necessary  to  repeat  that  this  music, 
without  the  language  that  accompanies  it,  is  incom- 
prehensible, and  that  those  who  think  they  under- 
stand the  music  without  the  language  are  greatly  de- 
luded4? But  this  delusion  pleases  them:  this  chimera 
attracts  them.  It  must  have  taken  upon  them  a 
very  strong  hold  if  they  dare  to  say  at  this  moment 
that  they  are  held  by  the  spell  of  Parsifal." 

300 


THE  NEW  KULTURKAMPF 

My  hand,  stretched  out  for  the  honey  while  I  read 
my  morning  paper,  falls  back  on  the  table.  My 
cafe  au  lait  grows  cold.  Breakfast  loses  its  interest. 
For  this  is  Camille  Saint-Saens,  writing  in  the  Echo 
de  Paris,  daring  to  express  over  his  signature  that 
unbelievable  phenomenon,  the  growth  of  which  I 
have  been  noticing  since  the  war  began.  Let  us 
read  on. 

"I  have  said  what  I  think  of  this  impenetrable 
work,  where  the  sublime  rubs  elbows  with  the  ridic- 
ulous in  the  midst  of  an  atmosphere  of  boredom, 
whose  most  beautiful  pages  accompany  the  sacri- 
legious parading  of  the  ceremonies  of  Catholicism, 
where  one  sees  the  Holy  Spirit  Himself  descended 
from  heaven  as  a  dove,  suspended  on  a  thread. 
Thirty  years  of  waiting  and  advertisement  have 
made  it  an  enormous  success.  Will  the  French 
people  finish  by  perceiving  that  this  work,  whatever 
may  be  its  merits,  is  not  made  for  them"?  These 
long-drawn-out  scenes,  this  heaviness,  these  obscuri- 
ties, this  false  mysticism,  this  unwearying  prolixity, 
what  have  they  to  do  with  our  French  soul  which 
loves  only  frankness  and  clearness*? 

"Before  Richard  Wagner,  all  the  greatest  com- 
posers wrote  honest  music.  It  was  he  who,  unfor- 
tunately, gave  fashion  to  charlatanism. 

"After  the  massacre  of  women  and  children,  after 
the  bombardment  of  hospitals,  after  the  destruction 

301 


PARIS  REBORN 

of  cathedrals,  after  the  desecration  of  burial  places, 
after  the  cynical  confession  of  hate  for  France,  how 
can  there  be  found  a  single  Frenchman  to  demand 
the  music  of  the  'fakir,'  whom  Germany  has  con- 
sidered for  a  long  time  its  national  genius'?  The 
morality  of  individuals  is  not  that  of  nations.  We 
may  forget  the  injuries  of  nations — perhaps  that  is 
a  virtue — but  Wagner  was  of  those  who  insulted 
the  French  people.  The  forgetfulness  of  such  an 
insult  is  a  fault.  Would  you  go  to  applaud  a  mar- 
velous singer  if  he  had  insulted  your  mother*?" 

This  piece  of  stupidity  is  in  keeping  with  the 
movement  of  which  we  hear  from  London  to  bar 
from  concert  programs  the  works  of  Germans,  and 
to  replace  them  by  the  productions  of  loyal  British, 
French,  and  Russians.  Ye  Gods!  Is  this  war  to 
deprive  us  of  the  great  masters'?  Is  it  treason  and 
denial  of  country  to  listen  to  Beethoven,  Mendels- 
sohn, Bach,  Mozart,  Schumann,  Wagner,  Schubert, 
Handel,  Liszt,  Meyerbeer,  and  Strauss  *?  * 

Saint-Saens  in  the  field  of  music  is  only  one  in- 

1  The  most  popular  concerts — and  yet  of  a  very  high  grade — in 
Paris  are  the  Concerts  Touche,  on  the  Boulevard  de  Strasbourg. 
I  have  taken  at  random  one  of  the  weekly  programs  of  last  win- 
ter's season.  During  the  week  December  thirteenth-eighteenth, 
I9I3»  eight  concerts  were  given.  In  every  one  of  them,  except  a 
soiree  devoted  exclusively  to  the  works  of  Beethoven,  Wagner's 
name  appeared  at  least  once  on  the  program.  Once  it  appeared 
three  times,  and  two  other  times  twice.  Of  the  seventy-five  num- 
bers played,  thirty-five  were  of  German  composers. 

302 


THE  NEW  KULTURKAMPF 

stance  of  how  the  French  are  writing  against  all 
forms  of  German  Kultur.  The  starting-point  has 
been  the  response  of  the  five  famous  academies  to  the 
manifesto  of  the  ninety-three  German  intellectu- 
els.  They  have  dropped  from  active  and  cor- 
responding membership  all  subjects  of  Wilhelm  II 
and  Franz  Josef  on  the  ground  that  these  learned 
men  have  defended  the  barbarism  and  maintained 
the  righteousness  of  their  country  in  the  present  war. 
Then — how  human  nature  does  show  itself  to  be 
primeval ! — it  has  only  been  a  step  from  this  action 
to  the  questioning  of  the  reality  and  worth  of  the 
scholarship  and  genius  of  men  who  could  belong  to 
such  a  nation  as  that  which  burned  Louvain.  The 
German  Kultur  defended  the  burning  of  Louvain. 
These  men  are  exponents  of  that  Kultur.  So, 
Wundt  is  not  a  good  psychologist,  Eucken  is  a  poor 
philosopher,  Ostwald  a  chemist  of  mediocre  attain- 
ments, Roentgen  rays  are  valueless,  Deissmann's 
Greek  might  be  better,  Lasson  is  a  humbug,  and 
Harnack  is  insane. 

If  the  Kultur  of  the  present  generation  in  Ger- 
many is  a  bubble,  pricked  in  Belgium,  how  about 
that  of  the  fathers  and  grandfathers'?  Nothing 
good  ever  could  have  come  out  of  such  a  race  of  bar- 
barians! I  have  been  reading  literary  men  on 
Goethe  and  Schiller,  philosophers  on  Kant  and 
Lotze,  naturalists  on  Humboldt,  historians  on 

303 


PARIS  REBORN 

Mommsen  and  Ranke,  and  so  on,  until  I  find  the 
idea  insidiously  put  into  my  head  that,  after  all, 
Frenchmen  and  Britishers  have  really  been  supreme 
in  every  field  of  intellectual  endeavor.  But  when 
it  comes  to  music — well,  I  let  my  coffee  get  cold. 

Heretofore,  we  have  regarded  the  productions  of 
the  human  soul  and  the  human  intellect  to  be  far 
above  the  clash  of  human  passions  and  human 
greed.  Genius  has  been  international,  and  the  one 
to  whom  has  been  granted  the  gift  of  song,  of 
poetry,  of  color,  or  of  insight  into  the  secrets  of  hu- 
man nature  and  the  laws  of  God,  has  been  proudly 
claimed  as  a  citizen  of  the  world,  belonging  to,  and 
a  benefactor  of,  the  whole  human  race.  But  now 
we  must  ask  where  a  man  was  born,  if  he  be  dead, 
or  to  show  his  passport,  if  he  be  living,  before  we 
read  what  he  has  written,  or  listen  to  the  message 
he  has  to  give. 

I  shall  wait  for  the  protests  against  the  new  Kul~ 
turkampf.  But  I  feel  sure  that  they  will  not  come 
now.  Never  struggle  of  race  with  race  was  bit- 
terer than  this  one.  Who  would  have  thought  that 
in  the  twentieth  century  the  highest  musical  and  in- 
tellectual leaders  of  France  would  be  advising  and 
advocating  a  national  boycott  of  the  great  masters, 
and  of  the  contributions  to  science  that  have  made 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  Jena  and  Heidelberg,  Bonn  and 
Leipzig,  foyers  from  which  every  student  and 

304 


THE  NEW  KULTURKAMPF 

thinker  the  world  over  has  taken  inspiration  for  a 
great  deal  that  is  best  and  highest  in  his  life? 

This  new  Kulturkampf  is  more  than  an  indica- 
tion of  the  bitterness  and  hatred  the  German  strug- 
gle for  world  supremacy  has  called  forth.  It  shows 
to  what  a  depth  of  folly  war  instincts  let  loose  can 
bring  down  the  wisest  and  most  gifted  of  men. 


30$ 


XXXII 

AND    THEN    THE    HANDELSKAMPF 

September  twenty-eighth. 

I  WENT  into  my  stationer's  this  morning  for 
some  of  my  favorite  carbon  paper,  and  when 
he  told  me  that  he  had  no  more  of  it,  and  would 
have  no  more,  because  it  is  manufactured  in  Vienna, 
I  started  to  grumble.  The  Stationer  was  amused, 
and  gave  his  usual  deprecatory,  propitiating  gesture 
of  shoulders  and  hands  working  in  unison.  He 
knows  well  enough  that  French  carbon  paper  is  very 
poor,  and  that  the  antiquated  method,  inherited 
from  remote  ancestors,  of  packing  the  English 
brands  dries  out  the  sheets  before  they  reach  the  cus- 
tomer in  a  foreign  market. 

But  the  General  Staff  Officer,  who  was  ordering 
some  visiting-cards,  answered  me  back. 

"What  right  have  you  to  raise  a  fuss  over  a  per- 
fectly natural  and  patriotic  state  of  affairs'?"  he  de- 
manded. "If  you  love  France,  as  you  profess  to 
do  when  you  are  smoking  my  cigars  at  the  Club,  you 
would  pat  the  Stationer  on  the  back.  More  than 
that,  you  would  tell  him,  as  I  have  done  several 

306 


AND  THEN  THE  HANDELSKAMPF 

times  in  the  past  half  hour,  that  he  ought  to  throw 
out  of  his  shop  every  article  he  has  in  stock  of  Ger- 
man and  Austrian  manufacture." 

The  arm  that  was  more  accustomed  to  brandish- 
ing a  billiard  cue  than  a  sword  was  agitated  in  an 
increasingly  eloquent  marking  time  to  words  as  the 
General  Staff  Officer  demonstrated  that  the  hour 
had  come  for  France  to  rise  up  in  her  wrath  and 
boycott  everything  "made  in  Germany." 

"I  tell  you,"  he  shouted,  "that  we  have  been  fools 
— fools,  I  repeat  it,  my  friend — to  allow  the  Ger- 
mans and  Austrians  to  come  into  France  and  cap- 
ture our  markets.  Why  should  our  good  money 
go  to  the  barbarians'?  It  makes  me  boil  to  think 
of  how  we  have  been  pouring  out  our  gold,  through 
pure  gentillesse,  through  our  careless  and  mistaken 
notions  of  courtesy  and  politeness,  to  build  up  Ger- 
man factories,  and  increase  the  power  of  our  ene- 
mies to  fashion  their  hellish  Krupp  cannon  to  strike 
us  when  they  got  good  and  ready.  O  fools,  fools, 
fools,  we  French  have  been !" 

With  this  the  General  Staff  Officer  blew  out  of 
the  shop,  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd  entering  the  gate 
of  the  Luxembourg  opposite  before  I  had  time  to 
recover  my  breath,  and  before  his  orderly,  who  had 
been  trying  to  find  a  substitute  for  absinthe  at  the 
cafe  next  door,  was  able  to  pay  for  his  drink  and 
hurry  after  him. 

307 


PARIS  REBORN 

"Feels  pretty  strongly,  does  n't  he?"  I  said  to  the 
Stationer. 

The  Stationer  looked  disgusted. 

"Sounds  patriotic.  He  is  the  great  I  AM,  and  he 
thinks  he  has  found  THE  GREAT  IDEA.  Do  you 
know,  I  am  one  of  the  largest  purveyors  to  the  E fat- 
Major.  The  War  Department  of  France  has  been 
for  years  a  consistent  buyer  of  German  and  Aus- 
trian goods.  They  always  want  the  best  of  every- 
thing, and,  in  my  business  at  least,  that  best  comes 
from  Vienna." 

The  Stationer  took  my  arm,  and  guided  me  to  his 
show  cases. 

"Then  look  at  these  novelties.  Practically  every- 
thing I  have  in  this  line,  things  that  are  attractive 
in  themselves,  that  are  time-saving,  that  are  clever, 
that  are  practical — the  little  articles  that  you  feel 
you  want  the  moment  you  see  them — all  these 
things  here  are  made  in  Germany.  For  instance, 
take  this  inkstand.  It  has  a  heavy  base,  and  ap- 
peals to  you  as  sensible.  For  you  have  always 
been  upsetting  inkstands.  Voila,  here  is  one  that 
will  not  upset.  You  buy  it.  The  Germans  study 
the  art  of  supplying  the  market  with  what  cus- 
tomers want.  We  buy  their  goods  because  they 
sell  well.  You  Americans  have  novelties  also,  but 
they  cannot  compete  in  price  with  German  goods, 
and  then  you  have  no  conception  of  how  to  sell  on 


AND  THEN  THE  HANDELSKAMPF 

credit.  It  is  only  in  novelties  protected  by  a  rigid 
French  patent  that  you  get  the  better  of  the  Ger- 
mans. As  for  us,  we  French  are  indifferent,  and 
the  English  are  stupid." 

I  was  interested,  and  the  Stationer  warmed  to  his 
subject. 

"That  General  Staff  Officer  is  typical  of  the  asi- 
ninity  and  injustice  in  vogue  in  Paris  since  the  war 
began.  He  wants  me  to  throw  out  my  German 
stock,  does  he*?  And  three  months  ago  he  and  all 
his  kind  would  come  into  my  shop,  and  ask  for  a 
certain  well-known  article.  German,  of  course.  If 
I  did  not  carry  it,  and  offered  him  a  substitute,  I 
would  find  him  sliding  out  of  the  door  before  I  fin- 
ished my  sentence.  To  run  a  high-class  stationery 
business  in  Paris,  stocking  German  and  Austrian 
goods  has  been  a  sine  qua  non.  Three  months  ago, 
if  I  had  not  been  carrying  a  large  line  of  goods  from 
Germany  and  Austria,  I  would  have  failed.  To- 
day, since  I  do  not  burn  up  the  fifty  thousand  francs 
of  goods  bought  by  me  because  the  public  wanted 
them  and  would  have  no  other,  I  am  unpatriotic." 

So  the  Handelskampf  has  followed  the  Kultur- 
kampf.  It  is  just  as  senseless,  and  far  more  cruel, 
because  it  is  affecting  thousands  of  shopkeepers 
whose  fault  is  that  they  have  been  good  merchants 
and  have  tried  to  please  their  customers. 

There  is  only  one  way  in  which  French  manufac- 
309 


PARIS  REBORN 

turers  can  profit  by  the  war  to  supplant  German  and 
Austrian  industries  in  their  own  markets  and  in  the 
markets  of  the  world,  and  that  is  by  manufacturing 
articles  just  as  good,  just  as  cheap,  and  just  as  at- 
tractive to  the  public.  In  some  fields  they  may  suc- 
ceed. In  other  fields  they  will  inevitably  fail.  For 
we  are  living  in  an  age  of  international  distribution 
of  labor,  and  it  is  as  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
manufacturing  and  commercial  genius  of  the  Ger- 
man race  is  any  more  reproducible  than  its  musical 
genius.  Just  at  this  moment  I  am  fully  as  alarmed 
about  the  prospect  of  a  winter  without  Vienna  car- 
bon paper  as  I  am  about  the  blank  months  ahead 
without  the  Opus  28  sonata  of  Beethoven. 

Boycott  measures  are  boomerangs.  I  have  never 
seen  them  fail  to  inconvenience,  to  injure,  the  boy- 
cotters  as  much  as  the  boycotted.  The  Kultur- 
kampf  and  the  Handelskampf  will  succeed  in  Paris 
only  on  that  day  when  Parisians  are  able  to  boast 
that  nothing  essential  or  desirable  to  satisfy  the  ma- 
terial and  intellectual  and  spiritual  needs  of  the 
French  race  comes  from  across  the  Rhine. 


310 


XXXIII 

RED    TAPE 

September  twenty-sixth. 

I  WAS  on  a  tram  this  morning  going  from  the 
Gare  Montparnasse  to  the  Etoile.  Opposite 
me  was  a  wounded  soldier,  who  was  evidently  not 
accustomed  to  crutches,  and  had  great  difficulty  get- 
ting to  his  seat.  As  he  had  a  bag  to  carry,  he  could 
not  have  done  so  without  help.  When  the  conduc- 
tor came  for  his  fare,  the  soldier  looked  surprised 
and  stammered  something  that  I  did  not  catch.  The 
conductor  insisted.  Others,  sitting  beside  him,  in- 
tervened, and  paid  the  conductor.  The  soldier  was 
greatly  embarrassed.  He  began  to  tell  his  story. 
We  gathered  that  he  had  been  wounded  in  the  Bat- 
tle of  the  Marne,  and  "evacuated"  to  a  hospital  in 
the  west  of  France.  When  he  was  discharged,  he 
was  sent  back  to  Paris  to  appear  before  the  Council 
of  Revision,  which  sits  at  the  Ecole  Militaire.  Only 
when  given  a  certificate  of  incapacity  would  he  be 
allowed  to  return  to  his  home. 

"How  long  were  you  on  the  train*?" 

"Thirty-six  hours." 


PARIS  REBORN 

"And  have  you  had  nothing  to  eat?" 

"No :  I  have  no  money." 

"But  when  they  discharged  you  from  the  hospital, 
did  they  give  you  no  money'?" 

"No.  You  see,  I  was  in  a  military  hospital,  and 
they  discharged  me  with  a  ticket  to  Paris.  In  the 
regulations  there  is  a  provision  only  for  a  ticket  to 
the  point  where  one  must  rejoin  his  regiment  or 
pass  before  the  Council  of  Revision  of  the  district 
of  his  enrollment." 

Here  was  red  tape  with  a  vengeance.  I  have 
gathered  so  many  instances  of  "applying  the  rule" 
that  my  heart  is  sick.  This  soldier  in  the  tram  is 
typical  of  the  machine-like  way  in  which  bureau- 
cracy deals  with  human  beings.  The  poor  fellow 
had  been  discharged  from  a  military  hospital. 
They  applied  the  rule — a  ticket  to  Paris!  If  the 
man  next  to  him  had  not  intervened,  the  conductor 
on  the  tramcar  would  have  had  to  apply  the  rule, 
and  put  him  off  to  stumble  along  to  the  Ecole  Mili- 
taire  the  best  way  he  could. 

It  never  fails.  The  routine  life  of  a  government 
office  invariably  stultifies  the  initiative  and  judg- 
ment of  the  unfortunates  who  are  chained  to  desks 
and  bound  in  their  every  action  by  rule.  Apply 
the  rule !  That  is  officialdom  in  a  nutshell. 

The  illustrations  of  how  "the  letter  killeth"  are 
most  striking  when  gathered  from  the  dealings  of 

312 


RED  TAPE 

officials  with  the  women  to  whom  sorrow  and  suf- 
fering have  come  through  the  war. 

Recently  the  wife  of  an  officer,  who  had  fought 
with  great  heroism  in  defending  Maubeuge,  could 
get  no  information  as  to  his  fate.  After  weeks  of 
the  anguish  of  uncertainty,  an  employee  from  the 
accounting  department  of  the  Ministry  of  War  ar- 
rived at  her  house  with  the  following  note : 

"Dear  Madam,  we  have  just  been  notified  that 
your  husband  was  killed  at  Maubeuge  on  August 

.  On  our  books,  we  find  that  he  had  received 

an  advance  of  salary  up  to  September  ,  and 

that  he  owed  for  a  leather  revolver  case.  Will  you 

kindly  give  to  the  bearer,  the  sum  of francs 

due  to  the  Government  for  the  advance  of  salary 
to  your  husband  from  the  date  of  his  decease  until 

the  period  to  which  he  had  been  paid,  and  also 

francs  for  the  revolver  case  charged  against  him." 

I  know  of  other  cases  where  women  have  gone  to 
the  local  office  where  the  daily  amount  allowed  to 
the  wives  and  children  of  men  at  the  front  is  paid, 
and  have  met  the  crisp,  matter-of-fact  statement, 
"Your  husband  is  dead;  your  name  has  been  struck 
off  the  list." 

The  wives  of  officers  in  the  departments  of  the 
North  which  are  occupied  by  the  enemy  are  finding 
it  impossible  to  secure  the  portions  of  their  hus- 
bands' salaries  that  were  set  aside  by  agreement  at 

313 


PARIS  REBORN 

the  beginning  of  the  war  to  be  directly  paid  to  them 
each  month.  For,  when  these  departments  were  in- 
vaded, the  Government  ordered  local  paymasters  to 
withdraw,  taking  with  them  the  governmental  cash 
boxes.  Many  of  these  women  are  wholly  dependent 
upon  what  they  draw  of  their  husbands'  salaries. 

One  officer's  wife  has  four  children.  Her  hus- 
band has  been  cited  for  bravery  in  the  "Order  of  the 
Day."  She  is  without  private  resources.  When 
Madame  went  to  the  local  officials  who  re- 
mained in  her  town,  and  asked  them  if  there  was  any 
way  in  which  money  due  her  could  be  paid,  they 
replied  that  she  would  have  to  make  the  request  on 
stamped  paper,  and  send  it  to  Bordeaux,  where  it 
would  be  passed  upon  by  a  special  council.  Then, 
when  the  paper  came  back,  they  would  be  able  to 
pay  her  out  of  the  general  funds  of  the  municipality. 
This  would  constitute  a  lien  against  the  Govern- 
ment, to  be  collected  later. 

"How  long  will  it  take?"  she  asked. 

"Such  a  request  will  probably  be  returned  here 
with  the  budget  papers  on  October  i." 

"But  what  shall  I  do  in  the  meantime1?  Can  you 
not  telegraph  for  the  authorization1?  I  and  my 
children  will  starve  before  then." 

The  employee  shook  his  head.  "Rule  189, 
Madame,  formally  forbids  a  request  for  special  au- 
thorization of  funds  to  be  made  by  telegraph." 

3H 


RED  TAPE 

"This  is  vital  to  me." 

"The  rule,  Madame,  has  no  exception." 

There  was  nothing  left  for  the  officer's  wife  to  do 
but  to  ask  alms  to  prevent  her  children  from  starv- 
ing. 

I  could  multiply  these  cases  to  show  how  the  in- 
flexibility of  public  officials  is  causing  a  wholly  un- 
necessary burden  of  sorrow  and  anxiety.  It  is  not 
the  destitute  who  are  suffering  most.  They  have 
known  in  times  of  peace  what  it  is  to  be  without 
means,  and  have  learned  how  to  get  assistance.  It 
is  the  women  of  the  middle  classes  who  would  rather 
die  than  ask  for  private  help,  that  are  suffering  all 
over  France. 

In  the  meantime  red  tape  reigns  supreme. 

October  thirty-first. 

The  most  pitiful  feature  of  the  war,  as  we  see  it 
in  Paris,  is  the  state  of  uncertainty  in  which  most 
people  are  living.  Is  the  husband,  the  son,  the 
brother  alive,  or  is  he  dead*?  If  he  is  wounded,  is 
it  seriously,  and  where  is  he?  If  he  is  cold  in  the 
trenches,  is  there  any  certainty  that  he  received  the 
warm  clothing  mailed  to  him*?  If  he  is  a  prisoner, 
will  he  get  the  money  sent  to  him1? 

Poor  mothers  and  wives  and  children  of  the  sol- 
diers! Suffering  women  of  France!  The  hag- 
gard and  drawn  faces  that  one  sees  on  the  streets 

315 


PARIS  REBORN 

are  due  to  this  failure  of  the  postal  administration 
more  than  to  any  other  cause. 

A  soldier  was  wounded  on  September  thirtieth. 
By  accident  his  wife  learned  that  he  had  been 
wounded.  She  had  no  official  information,  and  has 
none  yet.  On  October  ninth,  she  met  an  officer  of 
her  husband's  company  who  told  her  that  her  hus- 
band had  a  bullet  through  his  shoulder  and  had  been 
removed  by  a  field  ambulance  to  some  base  hospital. 
On  October  first,  she  sent  him  a  registered  letter;  on 
the  third,  a  registered  package;  on  the  seventh,  a 
registered  package;  on  the  tenth,  a  registered  letter; 
on  the  seventeenth,  a  registered  letter ;  on  the  twenty- 
third,  a  money  order;  on  the  twenty- fourth  and 
twenty-fifth,  telegrams.  These  communications 
were  all  addressed,  following  the  official  direction, 
to  the  garrison  town  where  he  had  joined  his  regi- 
ment at  the  time  of  mobilization. 

The  soldier's  wife  is  poor,  and  has  deprived  her- 
self of  necessities  to  pay  the  postage.  She  has  had 
absolutely  no  word  of  any  kind  either  from  her  hus- 
band or  from  the  military  authorities.  She  says, 
"I  am  brave,  and  I  am  ready  for  every  sacrifice.  I 
did  not  weep  before  my  husband  on  the  day  of  his 
departure.  I  showed  him  that  he  could  go  peace- 
fully to  do  his  duty,  that  my  courage  and  my  re- 
assuring words  would  never  fail.  But  to  think  that 
he  is  suffering  in  some  far  off  corner  of  France,  per- 

316 


RED  TAPE 

haps  dying,  without  having  a  word  from  him,  is 
more  than  my  heart  can  bear." 

November  twentieth. 

The  Mayor  of  the  village  of  Pont-en-Royans  has 
seen  his  hair  turn  white  during  the  past  three 
months.  Loyalty  to  the  administration  has  kept  his 
lips  sealed  as  to  the  cause  of  his  troubles.  But  the 
last  straw  has  been  placed  upon  the  camel's  back. 
M.  Hennebert  has  finally  burst  forth  into  public 
print.  He  does  not  care  now  whether  he  loses  his 
job  or  not.  He  has  all  he  can  stand.  I  am  going 
to  let  him  tell  his  story. 

"In  my  official  position,  ever  since  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  there  has  not  been  a  moment  that  I  have 
not  been  besieged  by  families  who  have  tried  to  ob- 
tain news  of  their  children  at  the  front,  and  who, 
in  some  cases,  have  not  heard  from  their  loved  ones 
since  the  end  of  August. 

"Full  of  confidence  in  our  official  machinery,  at 
the  beginning  I  wrote  to  the  proper  authorities,  who 
at  the  end  of  fifteen  days  answered  me :  'No  infor- 
mation; presumably  in  good  health.' 

"And  I  used  to  say  to  the  families :  'Every  even- 
ing they  sound  the  call,  and  in  each  regiment  they 
gather  the  names  of  those  who  have  been  killed  and 
wounded.  If  a  soldier  does  not  answer  eight  days 
on  end,  then  they  report  him  as  disappeared.  In 

317 


PARIS  REBORN 

this  case,  he  may  be  either  dead  or  prisoner,  but,  at 
any  rate,  at  the  end  of  eight  days,  if  he  is  no  longer 
with  his  regiment,  his  name  is  written  down  and  sent 
to  the  Ministry. 

"  Then,  since  the  name  of  your  child  has  not  been 
given  to  be  sent  in  to  the  Ministry,  it  is  because  he  is 
with  the  others  in  his  regiment;  that  is  why  they 
write  to  you  "Presumably  in  good  health."  ' 

"Alas!  I  have  for  a  long  time  lost  confidence  in 
the  information  given  by  the  Ministry.  One  day, 
I  received  concerning  a  certain  soldier  the  customary 
information,  'Presumably  in  good  health.'  Six 
days  later,  I  was  informed  by  the  Council  of  Admin- 
istration of  this  regiment  of  the  decease  of  this  sol- 
dier, 'Dead  a  month  and  a  half  ago/ 

"For  another  soldier  I  receive  the  ordinary  printed 
slip,  'Presumably  in  good  health.'  I  tell  his  wife. 
Eight  days  after,  his  wife  receives  from  him  a  postal 
card  from  Germany,  announcing  that  he  has  been  a 
prisoner  for  five  weeks ! 

"I  could  go  on  ad  nauseam^  but  this  is  enough  to 
show  you  what  my  situation  is  when  mothers  come 
to  ask  about  their  boys.  Ought  I  to  continue  to 
write  and  fool  them  by  these  printed  slips,  'Pre- 
sumably in  good  health'  ?  Here  is  a  story  to  top  off 
all  the  rest. 

"Officially,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  September,  I 
am  told  to  notify  the  family  of  the  soldier  Regnier 

3-8 


RED  TAPE 

of  his  decease.  Officially,  mind  you.  So  I  go  to 
their  home  to  break  the  news.  In  the  midst  of  their 
tears  and  their  cries,  the  family  show  me  the  last 
postal  card  from  the  young  soldier  which  was  re- 
ceived that  very  morning,  and  dated  September 
twenty-seventh,  that  is,  two  days  before.  But  the 
notice  of  decease  is  that  he  died  on  September  sev- 
enth. I  say  to  the  father:  'I  would  not  give  you 
too  great  hope.  Your  child  must  have  died  the 
twenty-seventh,  perhaps  suddenly,  and  the  secretary 
charged  with  transcribing  the  letter  I  have  received 
must  have  forgotten  the  cipher.  Instead  of  the 
twenty-seventh,  he  must  have  put  the  seventh.  But 
for  all  that,  a  doubt  exists.  Don't  worry  too  much. 
I  am  going  to  find  out  the  truth  of  the  matter.' 

"I  write  to  the  Council  of  Administration.  They 
answer:  'There  has  been  no  error.  The  official 
notice  of  decease  carries  indeed  the  date  of  Septem- 
ber seventh.  If,  then,  the  soldier  has  written  the 
twenty-seventh,  it  is  that  he  is  not  dead.  We  shall 
notify  the  Ministry.  On  your  side,  you  ought  to 
write  to  the  hospital  where  he  was  in  treatment  and 
from  which  his  death  was  reported.' 

"I  write  to  the  chief  physician  of  Besanc/m — no 
response.  I  send  him  a  telegram  with  answer  pre- 
paid— no  response.  So  I  write  him  a  letter,  this 
time  a  little  hot.  Finally  I  receive  a  telegram: 
'We  do  not  know  one  Regnier  at  the  hospital.' 

319 


PARIS  REBORN 

"I  am  still  holding  this  telegram  in  my  hand 
when  there  comes  to  my  office  with  smiling  face  the 
sister  of  the  dead  man,  who  holds  out  to  me  a  let- 
ter: 'Monsieur  le  Maire,  my  brother  has  written 
to  us  again.'  I  take  the  letter  to  examine  it.  There 
is  no  error.  The  dead  man  had  written  on  October 
second. 

"  'Very  well,'  I  say  to  the  family.  'Now  you  are 
reassured.' 

"Several  days  afterwards,  I  finally  receive  from 
the  hospital  of  the  Red  Cross  a  letter  giving  me  news 
of  Regnier,  telling  me  that  there  are  several  hos- 
pitals in  the  city,  that  they  have  only  just  received 
my  letter,  etc. 

"I  thought  no  more  of  this  affair  until  October 
twenty-third.  Then  I  received  a  notice  from  the 
Prefecture  of  Besangon  begging  me  to  advise  the 
family  of  the  soldier  Regnier  that  he  had  been 
wounded,  and  was  being  treated  at  the  hospital  at 
Besangon. 

"Finally,  I  thought  that  this  affair  was  indeed 
closed,  when,  to-day,  October  thirtieth,  I  received  a 
telegram  sent  to  me  by  some  one — I  don't  know  by 
whom — which  informs  me  that  the  soldier  Regnier  is 
unknown  in  the  hospitals  at  Besangon. 

"Oh,  my  head !  My  head !  I  do  not  care  what 
happens  if  I  send  this  story  to  a  newspaper.  Any- 
thing is  better  than  having  to  give  false  news,  and 

320 


RED  TAPE 

to  play  in  this  farcical  manner  with  the  affections 
of  those  who  are  giving  their  children  for  the  salva- 
tion of  France." 


321 


i 


XXXIV 

SHARING    THE    GLORY 

October  second. 

REMEMBER  having  heard  M.  Emile  Faguet 
say  some  years  ago  that  the  French  are,  indi- 
vidually, the  most  jealous  race  in  the  world  of  each 
other's  attainments  and  achievements.  The  state- 
ment is  true,  when  it  is  limited  to  the  intellectual 
classes — except  that  M.  Faguet  forgot  the  Italians. 
But,  while  incompatibility  (to  use  the  euphemistic 
term)  is  common  among  men  of  talent  working  in 
the  same  field,  strangely  enough  it  does  not  hold 
equally  true  if  the  man  who  is  doing  the  same  kind 
of  thing  you  are  doing  is  a  foreigner.  The  French- 
man does  not  brook  the  other  Frenchman  who  dares 
to  rival  him,  but  he  extends  a  hand  to  the  competi- 
tor of  another  nation. 

If  there  is  no  more  jealous  race  than  the  French 
in  their  relations  with  each  other,  at  the  same  time 
there  is  no  more  generous  race  in  their  praise  of  out- 
siders. I  have  friends  who  do  not  agree  with  this 
opinion,  and  who  bring  up  proofs  from  their  own 
experience  to  refute  it.  But  the  instances  they  cite 

322 


SHARING  THE  GLORY 

are  the  exceptions  that  prove  the  rule.  I  hold  to  this 
opinion  since  the  war  began  more  strongly  than  ever 
before.  And  I  have  good  reason  to  do  so. 

The  spirit  of  generosity  and  the  lack  of  jealousy 
shown  by  the  French  press  during  these  past  three 
months  in  regard  to  the  exploits  of  their  allies  is 
wonderful. 

From  the  very  first  moment  of  the  war,  the  Brit- 
ish Expeditionary  Corps,  although  comprising  only 
a  tenth  of  the  forces  in  action,  has  received  the 
warmest  praises  from  every  newspaper  in  Paris. 
There  has  never  been  a  word  of  criticism,  even  after 
the  disastrous  retreat  from  Charleroi  to  Compiegne. 
Full  credit  has  been  given  to  the  important  part  that 
the  British  played  in  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  and 
in  the  present  struggle  along  the  Aisne. 

The  same  spirit  has  been  displayed  towards  the 
Belgians.  The  French  have  been  untiring  in  their 
praise  of  the  heroism  of  the  Belgians  at  the  moment 
of  the  German  invasion,  and  have  not  hesitated  to 
admit  that  the  defense  of  Liege  probably  prevented 
the  capture  of  Paris  by  the  Germans.  We  read 
constantly  in  the  papers  about  the  exploits  of  the 
Belgians  and  the  British,  and  I  have  never  once  seen 
the  suggestion  that  the  Allies  were  after  all  a  negligi- 
ble factor  in  the  defense  of  France. 

The  colonial  troops  from  Morocco,  Tunis,  and 
Senegal  have  also  had  a  good  press.  In  fact,  they 

323 


PARIS  REBORN 

have  been  spoken  of  as  the  most  daring  and  most 
efficient  element  in  the  offensive  movements  in  Al- 
sace, Lorraine,  and  Belgium  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  It  is  reported  that  the  Germans  are  more 
afraid  of  them  than  any  other  body  of  men  among 
their  opponents. 

Space  also  has  been  devoted  to  the  movements  of 
the  Russian  armies  in  Russian  and  Austrian  Poland. 
It  has  been  pointed  out  that  the  advance  of  General 
Rennenkampf,  although  it  did  not  end  successfully, 
was  of  very  great  service  to  the  French  army,  because 
it  compelled  Germany  to  send  many  of  her  best  regi- 
ments from  the  French  field  of  action  to  stem  the 
tide  of  the  Russian  invasion.  One  able  French 
critic  has  declared  that  the  way  the  Russian  cam- 
paign has  been  managed  from  the  very  first  day  of 
the  war  has  helped  more  in  the  salvation  of  France 
than  if  the  troops  engaged  there  had  been  actually 
united  with  the  French  army  in  repelling  the  Ger- 
man dash  on  Paris. 

I  contrast  this  admirable  loyalty  and  generous 
spirit  of  praise  which  France  has  shown  with  the 
despicable  spirit  of  all  the  Balkan  allies  during  their 
war  with  Turkey.  Their  self-conceit  and  jealousy 
prevented  Bulgarians,  Greeks,  and  Servians  from 
seeing  the  importance  of  what  other  armies  than 
their  own  had  done.  The  spirit  of  France  is  an 
excellent  augury  of  harmony  in  the  settlement  of 

324 


SHARING  THE  GLORY 

the  issues  of  the  war.  Germany  cannot  hope  that 
those  who  are  opposing  her  will  fall  out  amongst 
themselves. 

November  twenty-sixth. 

The  French  press  is  growing  very  restless  over  the 
continuance  of  the  severe  military  censorship,  which 
maintains  its  rule  of  brevity  and  anonymity  in  re- 
porting the  events  of  the  battle-fields.  There  is  cold 
comfort  for  the  journalists  to  have  to  publish,  and 
for  the  people  to  have  to  continue  to  read  daily, 
about  the  wonderful  progress  of  the  Russian  armies 
against  Austria  and  Germany,  and  the  important 
part  played  by  Russia  in  preventing  the  total  con- 
centration of  the  best  German  troops  between  Paris 
and  Calais. 

Bitterer  still  is  the  fact  that  the  British  news- 
papers seem  to  be  given  carte  blanche  to  reproduce 
in  the  smallest  detail  the  operations  of  their  Expe- 
ditionary Corps  in  France  and  to  give  credit  to  in- 
dividuals for  exploits  of  war.  In  default  of  infor- 
mation of  the  movements  of  their  own  army,  the 
Paris  newspapers  reproduce  the  accounts  written  by 
British  journalists,  and  are  naturally  full  of  what 
the  British  army  is  doing. 

The  result  is  that  when  we  open  our  newspapers 
at  the  breakfast  table,  we  have  every  day  glowing 
and  detailed  accounts  of  how  the  British  bulldogs 

325 


PARIS  REBORN 

are  holding  back  the  Germans  on  the  Belgian  fron- 
tier and  saving  the  day  for  France.  One  would 
think  that  the  French  army  was  standing  by  and  look- 
ing on  while  the  British  and  Germans  fought  it  out 
between  them.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  the  avia- 
tion corps.  We  hear  continually  of  daring  raids  of 
British  aviators  into  German  territory  and  of  the 
dropping  of  bombs  on  Zeppelin  sheds  one  hundred 
and  fifty  kilometers  from  the  French  frontier. 

The  French  are  getting  restless.  They  would  be 
inhuman  if  they  were  not.  They  reason:  we  have 
ten  times  as  many  airmen  as  the  British,  and  our 
army  in  the  field  is  five  times  as  large  as  that  of  the 
British.  Our  losses  since  the  beginning  of  the  war 
— although  we  have  no  definite  information — have 
certainly  exceeded  the  total  number  of  the  British 
forces  engaged.  Are  the  deeds  of  our  soldiers  and 
of  our  airmen  to  pass  in  silence  and  go  into  oblivion, 
while  those  of  our  allies  are  held  up  to  us  daily  in 
glowing  reports'? 

But  while  they  are  eager  to  hear  of  French  feats 
of  arms,  they  do  not  translate  this  eagerness  into 
jealousy  of  their  allies.  The  military  writers  con- 
tinue to  give  unstinted  praise  to  the  British  and 
Russians,  and  to  acknowledge  the  essential  aid  of 
the  Belgians.  The  policy  of  silence  and  anonymity 
is  burdensome,  but  it  is  being  borne.  In  private 
conversation  as  well  as  in  the  newspapers,  the  re- 

326 


SHARING  THE  GLORY 

straint  is  splendid.  There  is  glory  enough  for  all. 
The  French  are  giving  it  to  others,  and  waiting  pa- 
tiently for  their  share.  Could  there  be  greater  glory 
than  just  this*? 


327 


XXXV 

THE    CENSORSHIP    AGAIN 

October  third. 

THE  censorship  in  France  has  never  been  more 
strict  than  during  these  trying  weeks  of  con- 
tinual conflict  on  the  Aisne.  There  is  no  newspa- 
per which  is  edited  with  sufficient  care  to  avoid  the 
displeasure  of  the  censor.  Even  the  semi-official 
Temps  has  blank  places  on  every  page,  and  some 
of  its  leading  articles  have  so  many  lines  left  out  of 
them  that  the  sense  is  completely  gone.  This  morn- 
ing the  resume  of  the  situation  in  the  Paris  edition 
of  the  New  York  Herald  has  been  entirely  cut  out, 
leaving  the  upper  left  hand  corner  of  the  first  page 
blank.1 

One  can  understand  and  appreciate  the  reasons 
for  the  severity  of  the  military  censorship.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  the  blanks  signify  places 

1  Since  the  very  first  day  of  the  war,  the  Paris  edition  of  the 
Herald  has  been  a  source  of  pride  and  comfort  to  Americans  resi- 
dent here.  It  is  first  with  the  news,  brilliantly  edited,  and  loyal  to 
France  in  an  intelligent  as  well  as  fearless  way.  Always  optimis- 
tic, with  an  unwavering  faith  in  the  armies  of  France  and  Great 
Britain,  it  was  certainly  not  from  the  Herald  that  any  American 
got  his  reason  for  becoming  a  froussard. 

328 


THE  CENSORSHIP  AGAIN 

where  information  had  been  printed  unfavorable  to 
the  French  arms.  The  allied  armies  are  winning: 
of  that  we  are  certain.  But  the  censor  is  still  se- 
vere. For,  though  we  have  no  news  of  defeat  to 
hide,  there  is  still  the  necessity  of  preventing  the 
revelation  to  the  enemy  of  the  movements  of  troops. 

Suppressing  unfavorable  news  is  stupid.  Forbid- 
ding the  publication  of  news  that  would  give  the 
slightest  hint  to  the  enemy  is  wise.  The  trouble  is 
that  the  French  authorities  have  not  made  a  clear 
distinction  in  their  policy.  At  times  it  has  been 
dictated  by  the  first  consideration,  and  at  others, 
by  the  second.  So  the  people  are  suspicious,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  every  straw  points  to  a  succession 
of  victories  along  the  whole  line  of  battle. 

There  is  a  third  form  of  censorship  which  has 
been  exercised  to  some  extent,  and  that  is,  suppress- 
ing the  expression  of  political  opinions.  This  is  a 
very  dangerous  game,  and  yet  the  Government  at 
Bordeaux  has  been  led  into  the  mistake  of  adopting 
it.  One  may  rightly  question  the  good  taste  of 
bringing  up  political  issues  at  the  time  the  enemy 
is  invading  the  country,  but  repressive  measures 
against  the  liberties  of  the  press  do  not  cure  this 
feeling.  On  the  contrary,  they  aggravate  it. 

The  most  striking  instance  of  political  censor- 
ship is  that  which  has  been  directed  against  M. 
Clemenceau,  the  former  Premier,  who  is  one 

329 


PARIS  REBORN 

of  the  most  able  political  leaders  in  France.  His 
newspaper,  L'Homme  Libre  (The  Free  Man),  was 
suspended  by  a  decree  from  Bordeaux.  M.  Cle- 
menceau  started  another  paper  which  he  called 
L'Homme  Moms  Libre  (The  Man  Less  Free). 
This  paper  in  turn  was  suspended  on  the  second  day 
of  publication.  M.  Clemenceau  persisted  in  his  ef- 
fort to  get  his  personal  opinions  before  the  public 
by  trying  a  third  time  with  L'Homme  Enchame 
(The  Man  in  Chains).  We  have  just  heard  that  all 
the  copies  of  this  paper  have  been  seized  in  the  rail- 
way stations.  The  result  is  that  every  one  in  Paris 
wants  a  copy,  and  L'Homme  Enchame  cannot  be 
bought  for  love  or  money! 


330 


XXXVI 

THE    EIFFEL    TOWER 

October  fifth. 

A  WEEK  ago,  when  the  telegraph  boy  brought 
me  a  little  blue  slip,  he  looked  at  me  with 
contempt  and  pity  when  I  gave  him  a  franc  for  a 
tip.  I  suppose  he  went  down  the  stairs  shaking  his 
head  and  muttering,  "These  Americans!" 

But  if  he  had  known  what  the  three  magic  words 
"PARIS  DEMAIN  MATIN"  meant  to  me,  he  would 
not  have  wondered  that  I  thought  the  message  he 
brought  was  worth  a  franc.  I  had  been  warned  be- 
forehand that  I  might  expect  good  news,  for  a  re- 
cent letter  from  the  Girl  had  said:  "Germans  or 
no  Germans,  aeroplanes  or  no  aeroplanes,  I  am 
going  to  bring  the  children  home  from  St.  Jean-du- 
Doigt.  Do  you  realize  that  I  have  had  four  months 
of  the  Brittany  coast,  and  two  months  of  it  without 
you,  that  newspapers  are  generally  a  week  old,  and 
that  it  is  getting  as  cold  without  as  it  is  within1?" 

So  they  came  one  morning  at  breakfast  time,  the 
Girl  and  the  three  babies,  Yvonne,  the  French  maid, 
to  whom  Paris  is  as  water  is  to  a  fish,  Dorothy,  the 

331 


PARIS  REBORN 

English  nurse,  who  was  seeing  Paris  before  she  had 
seen  London,  and  three  cabs  full  of  luggage  that 
the  Girl  had  managed  to  get  through  in  spite  of  the 
formal  order  limiting  travelers  these  days  to  one 
valise  per  ticket. 

In  their  compartment  on  the  train,  a  French  offi- 
cer, returning  to  the  battle  front  after  recovering 
from  several  shrapnel  wounds,  had  expressed  his  sur- 
prise that  any  woman  would  be  taking  her  children 
into  the  city  when  the  Germans  were  still  so  near. 

"Aren't  you  afraid1?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  answered  the  Girl. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  have  faith  in  you  and  the  others  who 
will  stand  successfully  between  my  children  and  the 
Germans !" 

"I  shall  fight  better  for  that,"  he  said.  And  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  Girl  would  edit  this  out  of  my  manuscript, 
claiming  that  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Paris  during 
the  German  invasion,  and  especially  with  this  chap- 
ter on  the  Eiffel  Tower. 

But  I  do  not  agree  with  her.  It  is  not  recorded 
here,  because  I  am  proud  of  the  Girl,  but  because  it 
gives  the  reason  for  the  successful  defense  of  Paris. 
There  are  a  hundred  thousand  women  in  Paris  to- 
day who  feel  just  as  the  Girl  feels,  and  who  have  let 
their  faith  be  known  to  the  red-trousered  heroes  in 

332 


THE  EIFFEL  TOWER 

the  Argonne,  on  the  Aisne,  and  in  the  North  from 
Compiegne  to  Ostend.  Faith  is,  in  the  last  analy- 
sis, the  source  of  strength.  It  is  the  undaunted 
spirit  behind  the  line  of  defense  that  makes  the  un- 
daunted spirit  in  the  line  of  defense. 

Then,  too,  this  little  story  explains  why  the  Girl 
and  I  were  driving  home  to-night  from  a  dinner 
party  in  Passy.  Since  the  war  began  I  have  had 
no  meal  with  friends  except  in  restaurants.  Now 
that  the  Girl  has  come  home,  the  normal  life  begins 
again,  and  I  resume  wrestling  with  cuff-links  and  re- 
fractory ties. 

We  missed  the  last  Metro  1  after  walking  the 
length  of  the  Rue  de  Passy  without  meeting  a  soul 
on  the  street.  And  it  was  only  five  minutes  after 
ten! 

We  were  saved  by  a  lonely  horse  cab  that  came 
ambling  through  the  Rue  Franklin,  just  as  we  had 
made  up  our  minds  to  a  long  walk  across  Paris. 
After  we  were  in  the  cab  (experience  makes  the  in- 
habitant of  the  Montparnasse  Quarter  wait  until 
he  gets  in  a  cab  before  giving  his  address)  we  told 
the  lord  of  the  box  where  we  lived.  He  groaned 
and  resigned  himself.  The  horse  would  have 
groaned  still  louder  had  he  understood. 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  we  began  to  doubt 
whether  luck  was  with  us  after  all:  for  the  horse 

1  The  underground  railway. 

333 


PARIS  REBORN 

slipped  and  fell,  breaking  a  bit  of  the  shaft,  in  front 
of  the  Trocadero. 

It  was  pitch  dark  and  beginning  to  rain.  I  got 
out  to  help  the  cocker.  The  Girl  stayed  put.  A 
cab  is  yours  as  long  as  you  are  in  it.  Two  police- 
men came  up.  We  unharnessed  the  horse  and  tried 
to  urge  him  to  his  feet.  Several  soldiers  joined  the 
group.  Each  of  us  had  his  way  of  doing  the  trick. 
Naturally  we  disagreed.  The  horse  did  nothing. 
He  was  quite  comfortable  where  he  was. 

While  we  were  engaged  for  half  an  hour  in  this 
most  difficult  feat  known  to  the  world  of  horseman- 
ship, we  had  ample  reason  not  to  regret  our  mishap. 
For  we  had  stopped  within  the  military  zone,  and 
saw  the  precautions  that  were  being  taken  to  guard 
the  Eiffel  Tower  against  Zeppelins  and  other  hostile 
aircraft. 

In  the  garden  of  the  Trocadero,  behind  a  pali- 
sade, vertically-shooting  cannon  have  been  placed, 
and  artillerymen  are  on  constant  guard  throughout 
the  night,  following  the  tireless  sweep  of  the  great 
electric  projectors  that  pierce  through  the  darkness 
in  every  direction  around  the  tower. 

"Since  August  second  we  have  been  stationed 
here,"  a  soldier  told  us.  "We  are  ready  for  the 
attack  when  it  comes.  But  two  months  have 
passed,  and  the  Germans  have  not  shown  them- 
selves. It  isn't  very  exciting.  We  got  all  over 

334 


THE  EIFFEL  TOWER 

that  after  the  first  few  days.  Oh,  how  we  wish 
they  would  cornel  Here  we  are  en  panne,  glued  to 
this  unholy  spot.  We  feel  like  the  British  sailors 
that  are  cruising  off  Heligoland.  The  Germans 
don't  give  us  a  chance.  This  is  not  war." 

"But  there  is  always  hope,"  put  in  another  cheer- 
fully. "The  raid  is  bound  to  come,  and  if  we  got 
changed  we  would  be  cursing  our  luck  not  to  have 
been  in  at  the  defense  of  the  Eiffel  Tower." 

Our  horse  was  on  his  feet  now.  They  were  re- 
harnessing  him,  and  patching  up  the  broken  shaft. 
The  cocker  hinted  that  we  might  possibly  find  an- 
other cab.  But  there  are  times  when  it  pays  to  be 
a  foreigner.  It  is  so  easy  to  pretend  that  you  do 
not  understand.  We  wanted  to  get  home,  and  were 
not  foolish  enough  to  abandon  our  only  hope  of 
traveling  Montparnasseward. 

I  emptied  my  cigarette  case.  We  were  profuse 
in  our  thanks.  With  mille  remerczments  to  the  po- 
licemen and  bonne  chance  to  the  soldiers,  we  re- 
sumed our  journey  over  the  Pont  d'lena. 

Within  a  mile  radius  around  the  Eiffel  Tower 
there  was  not  a  single  light.  That  the  cocker  could 
find  his  way  was  a  marvel  to  us.  Perhaps  he 
could  n't.  We  remembered  that  the  stables  of  the 
Compagnie  Generate  des  Voitures  Parisiennes  is 
just  the  other  side  of  the  Invalides.  Was  there  ever 
a  horse  that  did  not  know  the  way  home1?  So  far, 

335 


PARIS  REBORN 

so  good.     And  after  that  we  might  have  the  lights 
again. 

As  we  passed  under  the  shadow  of  the  tower,  if  it 
can  be  said  to  have  a  shadow  at  night,  the  search- 
lights, meeting  lower  than  their  wont  or  their  in- 
tention, placed  before  us  the  outline  of  the  huge 
steel  frame,  tapering  upward  a  thousand  feet,  and 
surmounted  by  a  flag. 

"The  raid  will  surely  come — why  surely?"  The 
Girl  was  pondering  over  the  confident  statement  of 
the  soldier.  "Is  it  just  the  hope  of  the  one  who 
watches,  or  has  he  reason  for  his  belief?  Why 
surely?" 

She  had  spoken  in  French.  The  cocker  caught 
her  question.  He  turned  in  his  seat.  The  horse, 
glad  of  the  chance,  stopped  short. 

Pointing  with  his  whip  toward  the  tower,  the 
coachman  said, 

"Why  not  'surely'?  They  must  know,  as  we 
know,  that  the  Eiffel  Tower  is  to-day  the  hope  of 
Paris,  the  indomitable  symbol  of  our  power  to  resist 
and  to  prevail.  See  the  symbol,  M'sieu-dame? 
It  points  heavenward.  It  soars  above  Paris.  It 
keeps  us  in  communication  with  the  outside  world. 
Let  Paris  be  besieged  again!  Who  knows4?  That 
may  come.  But  it  is  not  as  in  1870.  Then  we 
were  dependent  upon  carrier  pigeons  and  balloons. 
Now,  come  what  may,  Paris  can  flash  out  to  the 

336 


THE  EIFFEL  TOWER 

provinces  the  message  that  all  is  well,  and  that  vic- 
tory is  sure.  More  than  that,  it  is  the  Eiffel  Tower 
that  enables  us  to  give  the  lie  to  the  German  bulle- 
tins. It  is  our  mouth:  they  cannot  shut  it.  It  is 
the  voice  of  France :  they  cannot  drown  it." 

The  cocker  paused  to  push  back  on  his  head  as 
nearly  straight  as  it  ever  could  be  placed  there  the 
oilcloth  hat  which  had  almost  fallen  off  during  the 
emphatic  nods  that  punctuated  every  sentence  of  his 
oration. 

"And  do  you  know,  M'sieu-dame,  that  some  fool 
architects  have  long  been  urging  that  we  take  down 
the  Eiffel  Tower  because  it  is  not,  in  their  opinion, 
artistic?  We  shall  never  hear  that  talk  again!" 

The  horse  started.  The  cocker  said  no  more. 
Nor  did  we. 


339 


XXXVII 

RED    CROSS    AND    RECLAME 

October  sixth. 

RED  CROSS  work  in  Paris  has  been  disappoint- 
ing. At  the  beginning  of  the  war  a  great  fuss 
was  made  by  the  fair  dames  of  Paris  of  all  nation- 
alities. Ambulances  were  organized  by  "society 
women,"  and  palatial  private  homes  were  offered  to 
house  them.  Red  Cross  was  "le  chic."  Thousands 
volunteered,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  for 
nursing.  Training  classes  sprang  up  in  every  quar- 
ter. Women  abandoned  their  vocations  and  came 
back  to  Paris  to  attend  these  courses  and  to  enlist  in 
this  work.  There  was  enthusiasm  in  subscribing 
and  collecting  money  and  in  getting  fitted  out  in 
Red  Cross  uniforms. 

It  is  an  old  axiom  that  the  Parisiennes  look  well 
in  anything.  The  rather  forbidding  uniform  of  the 
hospital  nurse  was  deftly  changed  into  what  we  had 
to  admit  was  a  "ravishing"  costume.  Everywhere 
one  met  them,  these  ladies  of  the  Red  Cross,  always 
dressed  in  uniform,  and  generally  riding  about  in 
automobiles  de  luxe,  which  flew  the  Geneva  flag, 
and  were  driven  by  attractive  youths  en  soldat. 

340 


RED  CROSS  AND  RECLAME 

At  first,  the  military  authorities  declared  that  they 
would  probably  bring  no  wounded  to  Paris,  and 
that,  if  they  did,  the  public  hospitals,  and  the  am- 
bulances organized  on  a  large  scale  by  the  central 
organizations  of  the  Red  Cross  Society,  would  prove 
more  than  sufficient.  But  the  fair  dames  persisted 
in  organizing,  and  in  planning  the  equipment  of 
private  ambulances,  until — 

It  is  not  a  very  pretty  story,  but  it  must  be  told. 
The  Red  Cross  was  a  fad  to  most  of  the  rich  and 
idle  society  women.  The  exceptions  were  very  few. 
Butterflies  could  not  be  in  earnest,  even  at  a  time 
like  this.  When  it  came  to  a  question  of  definite 
service,  under  discipline,  many  of  the  fair  dames 
dropped  out.  When  the  Germans  approached 
Paris,  those  who  had  persevered  fled  from  the  city  to 
wait  for  the  wounded  at  Biarritz  and  Pau ! 

It  is  true  that  there  is  no  crying  need  for  volun- 
teer aid.  Not  many  wounded  have  been  brought 
to  Paris.  But  if  the  Germans  had  succeeded  in  the 
Battle  of  the  Marne  and  if  they  had  attacked  Paris, 
the  Minister  of  War  would  have  needed  to  call 
upon  all  these  private  ambulances.  Where  would 
he  have  found  their  personnel? 

Our  own  American  Ambulance  is  an  example  of 
this.  Generously  fitted  out  on  the  scale  in  which 
all  things  American  are  done,  it  was  planned  to  ac- 
commodate at  first  two  hundred  beds,  and,  if  nec- 

341 


PARIS  REBORN 

essary,  up  to  one  thousand.  The  ladies  of  the 
American  Colony  were  invited  to  volunteer  for  serv- 
ice at  the  American  Hospital.  A  great  number  reg- 
istered. They  came  dressed  in  their  best  frocks  and 
hats.  The  physician-in-charge  was  business-like 
from  the  beginning.  Perhaps  he  knew  his  audience 
only  too  well.  He  told  them  that  the  ambulance 
would  give  a  blessed  opportunity  for  service,  but 
that  it  meant  strict  discipline  and  the  ability  to  do 
cheerfully  disagreeable  work. 

"I  want  women,"  he  said,  "who  would  come  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  stick  to  the  job  all 
day  long,  and  who  can  be  counted  upon  to  come 
every  day." 

After  the  physician  had  finished,  the  ladies  were 
invited  to  register. 

"I  can  come  every  day  from  two  to  four,"  said 
one. 

"I  could  never  get  away  out  here  before  ten  in 
the  morning,"  said  another. 

"  I  '11  come  afternoons,"  said  a  third. 

"I  can  come  mornings,  but  must  leave  at  half 
past  eleven,"  said  a  fourth. 

And  so  it  went.  Out  of  the  eager  throng  of  but- 
terflies, one  could  count  on  the  fingers  of  his  hands 
the  women  really  willing  to  make  a  sacrifice  to  serve. 

The  American  Ambulance  employs  nearly  fifty 
trained  nurses,  and  has  a  hard  time  to  get  enough 

342 


RED  CROSS  AND  RECLAME 

patients  to  fill  its  beds.  It  is  better  so,  of  course. 
No  untrained  woman,  with  all  the  good  will  in  the 
world,  can  do  the  work  of  a  trained  nurse.  But 
what  if  we  had  our  thousand  in  the  American  Am- 
bulance*? What  if  the  whole  city  were  filled  with 
wounded — ten  thousand  coming  in  at  one  time,  as 
I  saw  at  Constantinople,  after  the  battle  of  Lule 
Burgas'?1 

I  can  answer.  There  would  be  plenty  of  women 
to  give  all  the  loving  care  necessary  to  our  heroes 
of  the  battle-fields.  But  they  would  not  be  the 
women  who  paraded  around  here  in  Red  Cross  uni- 
forms during  the  first  days  of  the  mobilization,  who 
rode  importantly  through  the  streets  in  their  auto- 

1  In  what  is  written  here  not  the  slightest  criticism  of  the  splen- 
did work  of  the  American  Ambulance  is  intended.  I  am  speaking 
of  volunteers  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  who  did  not  "material- 
ize." When  I  say  that  the  beds  were  not  full,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  I  am  writing  of  the  month  of  September,  when  every 
private  Red  Cross  enterprise  was  denied  the  privilege  of  caring 
for  the  number  of  wounded  that  could  have  been  accommodated. 
Since  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  American  Ambulance  has  had  all 
its  beds  filled,  and  its  physicians  and  nurses  and  orderlies,  many  of 
them  volunteers  and  unpaid,  have  shown  a  skill  and  devotion,  and 
have  accomplished  a  work,  of  which  the  American  nation  has  just 
reason  to  be  proud.  The  perfection  of  the  equipment  of  the  Amer- 
ican Ambulance,  and  the  remarkable  skill  of  its  surgeons,  came 
gradually  to  be  recognized  by  the  French  and  British  military 
authorities,  who  have  paid  us  the  compliment  of  sending  there 
the  most  desperately  wounded  and  the  most  hopelessly  maimed. 
Many  hundreds  of  unfortunates  owe  their  lives  and  an  alleviation 
of  their  disfigurement  and  lifelong  disability  to  the  American  Am- 
bulance. 

343 


PARIS  REBORN 

mobiles,  and  busily  talked  about  raising  money  and 
forming  ambulances  over  their  teacups. 

The  real  Red  Cross  worker  does  not  couple  her 
work  with  the  thought  of  advertisement  or  of  di- 
version. But  then  the  real  Red  Cross  worker  is  not 
the  typical  society  woman. 

There  is  an  interesting  story  from  Russia  that 
illustrates  the  spirit  desired  for  Red  Cross  work  and 
the  difficulty  in  getting  volunteers  who  show  that 
spirit. 

Grand  Duke  Nicholas,  Commander  of  the  Rus- 
sian army  in  Poland,  is  said  to  have  passed  recently 
in  review  a  corps  of  a  hundred  women  who  had  vol- 
unteered to  follow  the  army  in  the  field  ambulances. 
But  he  did  not  need  that  many.  How  choose 
among  them?  A  happy  thought  came  to  him. 

He  said,  "I  would  like  to  know  how  many  of  you 
are  willing  to  volunteer  for  the  work  of  devoting 
yourselves  exclusively  to  the  care  of  wounded  offi- 
cers'?" 

Sixty  of  the  hundred  immediately  stepped  out. 
The  Grand  Duke  waved  them  aside. 

"Red  Cross  work  knows  no  distinction  between 
friend  and  enemy,  between  rich  and  poor,  between 
high  and  low,"  he  told  them.  "It  is  a  work  of  hu- 
manity, to  be  carried  on  most  effectively  by  those 
whose  one  and  sole  thought  is  the  alleviation  of  hu- 
man suffering.  Who  it  is  that  is  suffering,  and  why 

344 


RED  CROSS  AND  RECLAME 

he  is  suffering  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  this 
work.  I  shall  take  to  the  front  with  me  the  forty 
women  who  do  not  care  to  devote  themselves  ex- 
clusively to  officers." 


345 


XXXVIII 

THE    TAUBEN    RETURN 

October  twelfth. 

STRANGE  how  different  things  really  are  from 
what  they  are  reported  to  be,"  said  the  Girl. 
"I  wish  I  had  made  a  collection  of  all  the  stories  I 
heard  at  St.  Jean-du-Doigt  about  what  was  going 
on  in  Paris.  Of  course,  I  did  not  believe  any  of 
them,  even  when  people  swore  to  me  that  they  were 
true.  I  remembered  Constantinople  when  the  Bul- 
garians were  at  Tchataldja.  How  we  used  to 
laugh  at  what  they  were  writing,  when  newspapers 
came  from  home!  People  were  so  persistent, 
though,  this  summer,  that  I  was  glad  I  had  your 
letters  to  back  up  my  denial  of  their  readily-ac- 
cepted canards.  And  now  I  have  been  home  for 
almost  two  weeks.  I  find  Paris  just  as  usual,  ex- 
cept that  so  many  people  are  still  away  from  town 
and  that  the  musical  and  theatrical  season  has  not 
yet  opened.  But  then  we  are  hardly  in  October 
yet!" 

We  were  taking  a  Sunday  afternoon  walk  up  the 
Boulevard  Raspail   and  the  Avenue   d'Orleans   to 

346 


THE  TAUBEN  RETURN 

Montrouge.  There  I  showed  the  Girl  the  elaborate 
preparations  that  had  been  made  to  defend  Paris 
against  a  sudden  raid  of  Uhlans  or  armored  auto- 
mobiles. Everything  was  just  as  it  was  a  month 
ago  when  the  Germans  were  at  Chantilly  and 
Meaux.  No,  on  a  thorough  examination,  I  saw  that 
the  defenses  had  been  greatly  improved  since  then. 
Freshly  turned  earth  indicated  that  workmen  were 
still  being  used  in  executing  new  schemes  of  de- 
fense. 

This  is  an  indication  of  something  I  had  never 
noticed  before  in  the  French  character,  and  some- 
thing I  had  often  noticed  the  absence  of.  It  is 
what  a  psychologist  would  call  continuity  of  effort 
in  measures  of  prevention.  The  French  wake  up 
to  a  sudden  calamity,  to  a  sudden  contingency 
against  the  occurrence  of  which  they  had  not  pro- 
vided. While  the  calamity  is  upon  them,  while 
the  contingency  presses  them  hard  and  embarrasses 
them,  they  are  full  of  energy,  and  spend  themselves 
in  persistent  and  plucky  efforts  to  ward  off  the  ap- 
proaching danger,  or  to  face  it  when  it  has  already 
come  upon  them.  But  once  the  danger  over,  they 
are  quick  to  forget,  and  easily  persuaded  to  aban- 
don their  work  of  defense  and  prevention.  There 
is  a  lot  of  talk  for  a  few  weeks  about  "taking 
steps."  It  ends  there. 

"Are  they  still  working  for  the  defense  of  Paris'?" 

347 


PARIS  REBORN 

asked  the  Girl  incredulously.  "How  is  it  pos- 
sible?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  pointing  to  a  ditch  with  my 
cane.  "That  earth  has  certainly  not  been  turned 
more  than  twenty-four  hours." 

We  looked  at  each  other,  and  laughed.  "Well 
of  all  things!"  the  Girl  exclaimed.  "The  French 
have  a  new  light." 

There  was  no  need  for  words.  We  were  both 
thinking  of  that  awful  flood  five  years  ago,  in  some 
ways  much  more  of  a  disaster  to  Paris  than  the 
German  Invasion  of  1914.  What  wonderful  hero- 
ism was  shown  in  the  face  of  a  calamity  that  no 
earthly  power  seemed  able  to  stave  off!  That 
memorable  Friday  afternoon  at  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  that  Friday  night  on  the  quai  between 
the  Pont  Neuf  and  the  Pont  des  Saints-Peres  when 
soldiers  and  civilians  were  making  dikes  and  build- 
ing up  the  parapets  with  bags  of  cement — how  they 
did  fight  the  water!  And  then,  when  the  flood  re- 
ceded, Paris  began  to  think  of  the  new  Rostand 
play,  Chantecler.  Nothing  has  been  done  since 
then  to  guard  against  another  flood. 

Right  in  this  very  year  itself,  less  than  two  months 
before  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  we  were  at  the  Sa- 
lon one  afternoon,  when  a  heavy  thunderstorm  broke 
over  Paris.  The  interminable  diggings  all  over  Paris 
for  extensions  of  the  subway  system  were  flooded. 

348 


THE  TAUBEN  RETURN 

A  few  hundred  feet  from  the  Grand  Palais,  small 
boys  coming  from  choir  practice  at  Saint-Philippe- 
du-Roule  were  swallowed  up;  a  taxicab  crossing  in 
front  of  Saint  Augustin  disappeared  in  the  ground; 
in  front  of  Raoul's  shoestore  on  the  comer  of  the 
Boulevard  Haussmann  and  the  Rue  de  Havre  a 
kiosque  and  some  pedestrians  fell  into  the  subway. 
In  many  other  parts  of  Paris  the  earth  opened  up. 
Something  must  be  done !  That  was  the  eight  days' 
cry.  And  then  came  the  Caillaux  trial. 

Do  you  wonder  that  the  Girl  and  I  were  surprised 
to  see  that  Paris  is  still  thinking  of  its  defenses,  after 
the  Germans  have  fallen  back  across  the  Aisne*?  Is 
it  possible  that  for  the  Parisians  a  danger  past  is 
not  a  danger  forgotten*? 

We  climbed  up  on  the  outer  mound  of  the  fortifi- 
cations beyond  the  moat,  and  walked  around  toward 
a  little  trou  of  a  gate,  known  only  to  those  who  are 
accustomed  to  roam  in  this  quarter,  where  one  can 
get  through  to  the  Pare  Montsouris. 

"Another  illustration !"  I  cried,  pointing  eastward 
toward  the  sky.  It  was  one  of  the  tireless  sentinels 
of  the  air  whose  duty  it  is  to  protect  us  from  a  re- 
turn of  the  German  aviators.  But  no!  My  arm 
fell.  Could  it  be4?  I  had  never  seen  one,  but  I 
did  not  think  I  could  be  mistaken.  For  who  in 
Paris  had  not  been  poring  over  the  models  of  aero- 
planes in  U Illustration  and  other  journals'? 

349 


PARIS  REBORN 

"It  looks  to  me  like  an  Aviatik"  I  said. 

Others  had  stopped  and  were  gazing  heaven- 
ward. The  aeroplane  passed  over  us.  No  doubt 
of  it!  Simultaneously  the  cry  went  up,  "Les 
Boches!" 

They  had  come  again! 

But  had  they*?  We  walked  to  the  Pare  Mont- 
souris,  and  down  that  wonderful  slope  by  the 
Oriental  Pavilion  where  one  sees  all  Paris  before 
him.  The  day  was  clear.  No  sign  of  clouds.  No 
specks  in  the  air  that  might  be  birds  of  human  mak- 
ing. The  Aviatik,  if  it  was  one,  had  gone.  The 
Sunday  crowd  in  the  park  was  not  thinking  of  aero- 
planes. We  must  have  been  mistaken. 

We  turned  homeward  through  the  Rue  de  la 
Sante,  a  street  reminiscent  of  Jean  Valjean,  where 
one  sees  the  suburban  Paris  of  Louis  Philippe,  when 
unpretentious  private  houses  with  a  bit  of  garden 
were  the  order  of  the  day.  No  Baron  Haussmann 
has  ever  turned  his  attention  to  this  quarter  of 
Paris.  No  subway  has  caused  the  rise  of  apart- 
ment houses  following  the  rise  of  land. 

As  we  walked  along,  thinking  it  would  be  ideal 
to  live  in  one  of  these  real  houses,  if  only  there  were 
some  quick  means  of  communication  with  "the 
world"  (how  narrow  and  insular  we  city  folks  are 
without  realizing  it!),  we  heard  the  unmistakable 
whirr  of  a  propeller.  Before  we  had  time  to  look 

350 


Sf^feV^fe 

-vi  ••;.-:-'  ,.',-  A- 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg.     The  usual  happy,  care-free  Sunday 

afternoon  crowd 


THE  TAUBEN  RETURN 

up,  several  shots  rang  out.  The  street  was  deserted. 
Our  portion  of  the  sky  seemed  to  be  deserted,  too. 
But  we  still  heard  that  whirr.  Then  appeared  the 
cause  of  it,  a  bare  hundred  feet  above  us,  the  most 
beautiful  of  aeroplanes,  a  Taube.  A  man  was  look- 
ing down.  We  could  see  his  goggles.  He  had 
something  in  his  hand.  Was  he  going  to  throw  a 
bomb*? 

Just  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  aeroplane 
disappeared.  We  hurried  towards  the  nearest  open 
space  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Jacques.  The  Germans 
had  gone. 

We  had  seen  two  German  aeroplanes.  How  had 
they  been  able  to  reach  Paris  on  this  remarkably 
clear  Sunday  afternoon1?  Had  they  dropped 
bombs  anywhere"?  We  thought  of  our  three  babies 
in  the  Luxembourg  Garden.  The  first  question 
was  lost  in  the  compelling  apprehension  of  the  sec- 
ond. Ten  minutes  later,  we  were  looking  among 
the  thousand  baby  carriages  for  our  own.  It  was 
the  usual,  happy,  care-free  Sunday  afternoon  crowd 
in  the  Luxembourg.  Children  were  playing  Diabolo 
and  tennis,  rolling  hoops  and  sailing  boats.  The 
Old  Guard  were  as  intent  as  usual  upon  their  cro- 
quet. No  signs  at  all  of  perturbation.  Had  the 
aeroplanes  flown  over  the  Luxembourg*? 

The  question  was  answered  for  us  by  our  eldest 
child.  She  spied  us  as  we  climbed  the  steps  of  the 

353 


PARIS  REBORN 

parterre  towards  the  Guignol,  and  came  running  to- 
wards us. 

"Oh,  Mamma,  oh,  Papa,"  she  greeted  us.  "Why 
did  n't  you  come  before*?  Do  you  know,  there  were 
three  big  German  birds  here,  and  the  French  birds 
came  and  chased  them  away.  They  were  naughty 
birds,  they  were.  But  oh,  it  was  such  fun !" 

Following  close  upon  Christine's  heels,  Dorothy, 
our  English  nursemaid,  pushing  a  baby  carriage  with 
one  hand  and  holding  Lloyd  with  the  other,  con- 
firmed Christine's  story. 

"It  was  very  exciting,"  she  said,  laughing. 

And  Lloyd  broke  in.  "The  French  birds  chased 
them — yes,  they  did!" 

When  I  opened  my  Temps  this  evening,  I  read 
that  there  have  been  five  German  aeroplanes  over 
Paris  to-day.  They  dropped  a  number  of  bombs, 
one  of  them  on  the  roof  of  Notre  Dame.  Many 
people  were  killed. 

"In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death."  True, 
isn't  it*?  But  Paris,  having  been  born  on  a  sunny 
day,  cannot  help  looking  upon  the  sunny  side.  One 
may  express  a  contrast  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  de- 
spair and  hopelessness.  But  one  may  also  express 
it  with  terms  reversed,  and  get  just  the  opposite  re- 
sult. Paris  says,  "In  the  midst  of  death  we  are  in 
life."  So  we  are. 

"But  the  French  birds  came  and  chased  them 

354 


THE  TAUBEN  RETURN 

away"  said  Christine.  And  Lloyd  echoed  her. 
That  was,  after  all,  the  important  thing.  It  is  be- 
cause my  babies  are  the  product  of  their  atmosphere, 
that  Christine  put  this  clause  at  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence, and  that  Lloyd  echoed  it.  The  impression 
on  their  mind  was  not  that  the  terrible  Tauben  had 
come,  but  that  they  were  chased  away ! 

Paris  is  peopled  with  Christines  and  Lloyds. 


355 


XXXIX 

WINTER    CLOTHING    FOR    THE    PIOU-PIOUS 

October  twenty-first. 

IT  is  getting  cold  in  France.  The  principal 
thought  of  the  nation  is  how  to  clothe  the  mil- 
lion and  a  half  soldiers  in  the  field.  The  wet  and 
the  cold  expose  the  men  to  a  danger  as  great  as 
that  of  the  enemy's  fire.  A  soldier  can  carry  in  his 
knapsack  hardly  more  than  his  blanket  and  one 
change  of  underclothing.  He  marched  away  under 
a  summer  sun,  the  little  piou-piou,  as  he  is  affection- 
ately called,1  so  he  is  not  provided  with  proper  cloth- 
ing for  what  now  looms  up  as  a  winter  campaign. 
The  headline  that  greets  you  every  day  on  the  front 
page  of  the  newspapers  is :  "Send  woolly  things  to 
the  soldiers." 

This  exhortation  is  unnecessary.     I  have  often 
wondered  at  the  industry  of  French  peasant  women. 

1  It  is  over  a  century  since  die  soldiers  of  the  line  were  first 
called  Piou-pious.  The  word  had  its  origin  in  a  change  of  uni- 
form for  the  infantry.  They  were  given  a  sort  of  clown's  costume 
•with  a  ruffle  around  their  neck  like  a  sparrow's  ruff.  When  the 
Parisians  saw  them  for  the  first  time,  they  called  piou-piou,  imi- 
tating sparrows.  The  term,  first  used  in  derision,  has  now  come 
to  signify  deep  affection  and  tenderness. 

356 


WINTER  CLOTHING  FOR  THE  PIOU-PIOUS 

In  every  hamlet  you  will  find  three  generations  knit- 
ting between  tasks.  The  inevitable  ball  of  yarn 
occupies  rheumatic  fingers  and  baby  fingers  as  well. 
The  old  motto  that  the  secret  of  the  wealth  of 
France  and  the  fruit  of  her  industry  is  in  the  stock- 
ing would  read  with  as  much  force  if  that  last  word 
were  plural !  A  great  city  makes  for  idleness  among 
the  poor  as  well  as  among  the  rich.  There  are 
many  housewives  of  country  origin  in  Paris  that 
have  lost  not  only  the  bloom  on  the  cheek  but  also 
the  nimbleness  of  fingers  that  used  to  add  pennies  to 
the  family  horde  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night. 

But  during  the  past  week  rusty  needles  have  come 
out  of  forgotten  corners,  and  a  hundred  thousand 
who  have  never  used  needles  before  have  bought 
sets.  For  knitting  is  now  the  national  occupation 
of  the  army  at  home.  Frosty  days  and  nights  have 
come.  Practically  every  woman  has  a  son  or  a 
husband — often  both — sleeping  and  fighting  in  the 
open  air,  exposed  to  the  rain  and  wind  of  these  cold 
autumn  nights.  Loving  hands  have  been  busy. 
On  the  street,  at  the  door,  in  tramways,  in  cabs,  in 
luxurious  automobiles,  beside  the  huckster  pushcart, 
the  women  are  knitting  to-day.  There  is  an  under- 
shirt, probably  several,  for  every  soldier.  But  the 
difficulty  is  to  get  these  stitches  of  love  to  the  loved 
one. 

As  with  the  wounded,  so  it  is   with  the  mail. 

357 


PARIS  REBORN 

The  organization  of  the  service  between  the  battle- 
fields and  the  capital  has  broken  down  completely. 
You  mail  your  package  to  your  man  at  the  front, 
pay  full  postage  for  it,  and  it  has  to  go  first  to  the 
garrison  town  where  his  regiment  was  mustered  into 
active  service.  For  example,  it  may  be  that  you 
live  in  Paris,  but  are  originally  from  Marseilles. 
Your  man  has  been  mustered  in  at  Marseilles.  Al- 
though you  know  that  he  is  shivering  fifty  miles 
away,  your  package  has  to  go  six  hundred  miles  to 
Marseilles  and  come  six  hundred  miles  back  to  Paris, 
and  then  it  is  officially  ready  to  go  to  the  front. 
Multiply  this  one  case  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
cases,  and  we  see  how  the  postal  administration 
stands.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  there  has 
been  exactly  the  same  regulation  for  letters.  The 
anxious  wife  or  mother  writes  every  day  to  her  loved 
one  at  the  front.  The  letters  travel  all  over  France 
and  back  again,  and  perhaps  after  a  month  or  six 
weeks,  if  the  one  to  whom  they  are  addressed  is  still 
alive,  he  may  possibly  receive  a  few  of  them! 

To-night  it  will  be  as  it  is  every  night  when  I 
go  to  mail  my  letters.  At  our  branch  post-office, 
I  stand  in  line  before  the  one  window  for  registered 
matter.  In  front  of  me,  behind  me,  are  the  women 
with  their  packages.  For  most  of  them  the  con- 
tents,— even  the  one  or  two  francs  of  postage — 
means  a  real  sacrifice  in  times  like  these.  If  only 

358 


WINTER  CLOTHING  FOR  THE  PIOU-PIOUS 

they  could  feel  certain  that  the  sacrifice  would  meet 
the  reward  of  the  package  reaching  the  man  in  the 
trenches!  Every  time  I  stand  in  that  line  I  hear 
some  little  women  asking  the  gruff  clerk  behind 
the  window  when  the  package  is  likely  to  reach  its 
destination.  His  answer  is  invariably  a  growl. 
But  they  pay  and  hope.  The  receipt  they  are  given 
for  the  registration  is  a  scrap  of  paper,  at  which,  if 
ever  one  were  bold  enough  to  come  back  to  make  a 
claim  for  non-delivery,  the  post-office  clerk  would 
look  as  von  Bethmann-Hollweg  looked  at  the  treaty 
guaranteeing  the  neutrality  of  Belgium. 

If  this  were  only  all  that  the  army  at  home  has  to 
endure!  But  they  have  also  the  fear  that  govern- 
mental initiative  is  failing  to  cope  with  the  problem 
of  winter  clothing  for  the  piou-pious,  owing  to  the 
same  incompetence  in  the  supply  department  of 
the  Ministry  of  War  as  that  in  the  post-office  ad- 
ministration. I  have  heard  this  fear  expressed  a 
hundred  times  in  almost  the  same  words.  "If  they 
do  not  succeed  in  getting  my  package  to  my  soldier, 
are  they  capable  of  supplying  him  from  the  depot, 
par  exemple?" 

The  bureaucrats  who  sit  at  their  desks  in  the  min- 
istries, and  year  in  and  year  out  follow  the  dull 
routine  of  advertising  for  bids  for  certain  supplies, 
passing  upon  the  bids,  and  seeing  that  the  goods  or- 
dered are  paid  for  and  sent  to  garrisons,  are  aghast 

359 


PARIS  REBORN 

at,  and  entirely  unfit  to  cope  with,  the  proposition 
of  a  million  and  a  half  new  winter  overcoats.  In- 
deed, at  different  points  along  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  of  battle-field,  positions  are  changed  every 
day  with  the  varying  fortunes  of  war.  This  is  no 
time  for  routine.  And  yet,  these  poor  creatures,  of 
limited  mentality,  continue  to  exercise  their  func- 
tions and  vainly  try  to  rise  to  the  situation. 

The  only  way  the  French  Government  could 
properly  and  adequately  and  quickly  give  to  the 
army  the  clothing  it  needs  for  the  winter  would  be 
to  call  temporarily  into  the  administration  the  head 
of  some  great  department  store.  There  are  men  in 
Paris  to-day  who  could  go  into  the  Ministry  of  War 
and  look  at  an  order  for  five  hundred  thousand  over- 
coats to  be  delivered  in  two  weeks  just  as  they  would 
at  an  order  for  a  single  cake  of  soap.  They  would 
refuse  to  think  of  anything  else  but  the  one  thing, 
"How  soon  can  I  get  those  overcoats  on  the  backs 
of  the  soldiers'?"  Telegraph  and  cable  wires  would 
flash  messages,  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  They 
would  scour  the  world  to  find  the  materials  and  the 
workmen  for  making  these  overcoats.  And  they 
would  get  them.  As  soon  as  they  got  them,  they 
would  see,  in  spite  of  red  tape,  that  they  reached  the 
soldiers  in  the  field — wherever  "the  field"  happened 
to  be. 

Of  course  executive  ability  of  this  kind — whose 
360 


WINTER  CLOTHING  FOR  THE  PIOU-PIOUS 

possessors  have  deservedly  made  great  fortunes — 
cannot  be  commanded  by  a  government  bureau. 
But  in  times  of  war,  such  men  would  be  glad  to 
step  in  and  give  to  the  country  a  service  that  would 
be  equal  to  that  rendered  by  generals  of  armies. 
But  they  are  not  called.  The  soldiers  are  left  to 
shiver. 


361 


XL 

THE    BOY    SCOUTS 

October  twenty-third. 

NOTICE  has  been  given  that  the  University 
of  Paris  will  open  as  usual  next  month,  and 
that  lycees,  secondary  schools,  and  primary  schools 
in  Paris  are  resuming  their  courses.  Some  teachers 
have  gone  to  the  front.  But  it  is  astonishing  how 
many  men  over  fifty,  eager  for  work,  rise  up  from 
cover  to  seek  places  as  substitute  teachers!  Every 
large  city  is  full  of  them.  Paris  has  more  than 
enough. 

The  problem  of  reopening  schools  is  not  in  find- 
ing teachers.  The  hesitation  has  been  on  account 
of  the  pupils.  Where  are  they?  Only  the  older 
university  men  are  in  the  army:  boy  volunteering 
has  not  been  allowed  as  yet.  Most  of  the  froussard 
families  will  soon  be  returning.  For  it  is  getting 
very  cold  in  the  country,  and  very  dull.  Those  who 
fled  from  the  Germans  might  endure  the  cold  rather 
than  return  to  the  fear  of  bombs.  But  what  Paris- 
ian can  long  suffer  dullness?  Better  death. 

Where,  then,  are  the  boys?  They  are  Scouts, 
362 


THE  BOY  SCOUTS 

and  they  do  not  want  to  give  up  this  fascinating 
work  to  go  back  to  school.  That  is  the  prob- 
lem. 

From  the  first  day  of  the  war  we  began  to  see  on 
the  streets  of  Paris  the  boys  who  had  donned  the 
uniform  that  has  become  known  all  over  the  world 
since  General  Baden-Powell  conceived  his  brilliant 
idea  ten  years  ago.  The  movement,  already  ini- 
tiated here,  has  spread  wonderfully  since  August. 

At  first,  the  Boy  Scouts  were  considered  as  a 
joke.  Their  elders  were  amused  at  the  way  the 
boys  "played  at  war."  But  the  boys  soon  showed 
that  they  were  in  earnest,  and  that  they  could  be  of 
real  service.  They  made  a  place  for  themselves  in 
our  civil  and  military  administrations. 

When,  in  August  and  September,  successive 
classes  of  men  were  called  under  the  colors,  we 
learned  that  very  many  of  them  were  not  indis- 
pensable. Their  places  in  home  industries,  in  fac- 
tories, in  shops,  and  in  public  service  corporations, 
upon  whose  continued  activity  the  economic  life — 
that  minimum  necessary  for  existence — is  depend- 
ent, were  filled  immediately  by  mothers,  wives,  and 
daughters.  God  bless  the  women!  There  will  be 
a  lot  of  men  eating  humble  pie  after  this  war. 

In  spheres  of  activity,  where  women  and  girls  are 
hardly  suitable,  the  boys  found  that  they  were  able 
to  replace  grown  men.  In  uniform,  and  convinced 

363 


PARIS  REBORN 

that  they  are  serving  in  the  active  army,  the  Boy 
Scouts  have  been  filling  an  amazingly  useful  part  in 
the  life  of  France. 

The  Boy  Scouts  are  patrolling  the  railways.  For 
moving  up  and  down  the  tracks  and  keeping  an  eye 
on  rails,  on  culverts  and  on  the  unimportant  bridges, 
the  boys  are  better  than  the  older  reservists  whom 
they  have  replaced.  Their  legs  are  nimbler  and 
their  eyes  quicker.  They  carry  newspapers  and  let- 
ters on  motor-cycles  from  cities  to  the  base  camps 
of  the  armies.  In  garrison  towns  they  are  marmi- 
tons,  preparing  meats  and  vegetables  in  the  casernes 
for  the  regimental  mess.  They  render  this  same 
sort  of  service  in  the  cantines,  where  the  refugees 
and  the  poor  of  the  city  gather  to  be  fed.  With  the 
help  of  the  Boy  Scouts  to  run  errands  and  serve  the 
food,  two  or  three  women  are  able  to  manage  a  large 
cantine. 

The  Boy  Scouts  are  messengers  for  the  ministries 
and  embassies  and  legations.  One  sees  them  going 
back  and  forth  through  the  streets,  carrying  mes- 
sages and  letters  too  important  or  too  urgent  to  be 
entrusted  to  the  post.  A  Cabinet  Minister  recently 
received  a  large  sum  for  the  decoration  of  the  graves 
of  soldiers  in  the  Paris  cemeteries.  He  wondered 
how  it  would  be  possible  to  utilize  this  money  for 
the  purpose  intended  by  the  donor.  He  thought  of 
the  Boy  Scouts.  By  the  dozens  they  visited  the 

364 


THE  BOY  SCOUTS 

florists  of  Paris,  bought  up  all  the  flowers,  and  car- 
ried them  to  the  cemeteries  on  their  bicycles. 

Their  most  valuable  service,  the  most  indispensa- 
ble and  the  most  difficult,  has  been  in  the  care  of  the 
wounded  in  hospitals  and  at  railway  stations.  In 
September,  Paris  could  not  have  done  its  duty  by  the 
wounded  who  were  poured  into  the  city  had  there 
been  no  organized  Boy  Scouts.  Many  a  soldier 
owes  his  life  to  them.  They  were  always  at  the 
trains  with  stretchers.  They  did  not  tire  of  carry- 
ing burdens  too  heavy  for  their  undeveloped  backs 
and  arms.  Orderlies  were  lacking  in  the  hospitals. 
The  Boy  Scouts  saved  overworked  nurses  and  phy- 
sicians many  a  step. 

But  now  we  are  accustomed  to  the  war,  and  its 
exigencies  can  be  met  without  the  help  of  the  Boy 
Scouts.  In  a  great  city  like  Paris,  there  are  bound 
to  be  more  helpers  than  there  are  jobs,  even  when 
the  bulk  of  the  men  are  withdrawn  for  the  army. 
The  economic  life  of  the  city  has  adjusted  itself  to 
changed  conditions,  and  plenty  who  need  work  are 
seeking  it. 

The  Boy  Scouts  do  not  want  to  give  up,  though. 
They  reason  that  they  have  enlisted  for  the  length 
of  the  war,  and  must  not  quit.  Parents  are  begin- 
ning to  be  embarrassed  and  annoyed.  They  do  not 
feel  so  kindly  towards  General  Baden-Powell's  bril- 
liant idea.  It  is  difficult  to  get  the  boys  back  to 

365 


PARIS  REBORN 

school.  The  Scouts  disdain  the  idea  of  being  school- 
boys again.  They  are  doing  a  more  useful,  and 
more  noble  work,  they  maintain. 

But  parents  in  France  have  a  way  of  enforcing 
obedience.  The  war  is  over  for  the  Boy  Scouts. 
They  yield  with  poor  grace.  After  all,  it  is  hard 
for  them  to  believe  what  the  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction  tells  them,  that  "diligent  attention  to 
studies  is  the  best  way  in  which  boys  can  prepare 
themselves  to  serve  the  nation."  PREPARE  to 
serve  the  nation?  What  does  the  Minister  think 
they  have  been  doing  these  three  months  past*? 

A  Boy  Scout  whom  I  love  comes  to  me  this  even- 
ing, and  pours  out  his  heart.  He  wants  sympathy 
and  encouragement  to  resist  the  call  back  to  books. 
I  have  to  disappoint  him,  and  I  make  the  mistake 
of  trying  to  work  off  the  Minister's  arguments  on 
him. 

He  eyes  me  with  amazement.  Amazement 
changes  to  disgust. 

"You  belong  to  the  conspiracy  against  the  Boy 
Scouts!"  he  cries.  "And  I  thought  you  were  our 
friend!" 

"Well,  I  am  a  father  myself,  you  know,"  I  an- 
swered lamely. 

"Say,  I'd  forgotten  that.  Never  mind,  you  can't 
help  it.  I  suppose  it's  the  Lycee  Montaigne  for  me 
to-morrow." 

366 


THE  BOY  SCOUTS 

He  grins,  and  holds  out  a  pardoning  hand. 
After  I  have  shut  the  door,  I  can  hear  him  whistling 
his  way  down  the  stairs. 


367 


XLI 

JUSQU'AU  BOUT 

October  twenty-ninth. 

THE  news  from  the  great  battle  in  the  north, 
unless  the  official  communiques  are  mislead- 
ing us,  indicates  that  the  Germans  have  failed  in 
their  last  supreme  effort  to  surround  and  destroy  the 
armies  that  have  stood  between  them  and  a  tri- 
umphal entry  into  Paris.  There  is  nothing  left 
now  for  the  Germans  but  to  retreat  step  by  step  from 
the  invaded  departments  of  France  and  from  Bel- 
gium, until  they  have  re-crossed  the  Rhine. 

But  there  are  two  reasons  why  Paris  is  not  re- 
joicing, in  spite  of  the  good  news.  In  the  first 
place,  the  victory  has  been  purchased  at  too  dear  a 
price.  The  British  and  Germans  have  published 
their  lists  of  killed  and  wounded  and  prisoners. 
The  French  have  not.  The  invader  has  been  re- 
pulsed, but  we  do  not  yet  know  the  cost.  We  can 
only  suspect.  Most  of  the  families  in  Paris  fear 
that  they  ought  to  be  wearing  mourning  for  loved 
ones.  In  the  second  place,  driving  the  enemy  out 
of  France  is  only  the  first,  and  perhaps  not  the  great- 

368 


JUSQU'AU  BOUT 

est,  phase  of  this  awful  war.  Every  one  knows  that 
a  greater  effort  remains  yet  to  be  made  than  has  al- 
ready been  called  for,  or  than  is  being  called  for  hi 
the  present  still  defensive  operations. 

The  German  superiority  in  men  of  military  age  is 
so  great,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are  fighting 
the  Russians  on  the  East,  that  their  losses  have  not 
meant  so  much  up  to  this  point  to  them  as  to  the 
French.  For  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
country,  France  will  need  fresh  forces,  and  France 
will  have  to  make  fresh  sacrifices. 

The  spirit  of  Paris  to-day  is  one  of  wistful  de- 
termination. The  war  is  not  over.  The  peace 
which  ends  it  must  be  decisive.  As  the  Jesuit 
Father  expressed  it  to  me  yesterday,  "If  we  do  not 
do  more  than  drive  the  Germans  out  of  France  and 
restore  Belgium  to  our  plucky  little  allies,  our  suc- 
cess will  be  a  delusion.  We  must  break  the  military 
power  of  Germany,  or  we  shall  have  to  live  again 
under  the  terrible  nightmare  of  1870,  to  which  will 
have  been  added  the  nightmare  of  1914" 

This  opinion  of  the  seriousness  and  the  long  dura- 
tion of  the  effort  that  must  be  made  to  crush  Ger- 
many is  shared  by  the  British.  The  British  Gen- 
eral Staff,  and  the  various  military  services  of  the 
British  army,  have  leased  buildings  in  Paris  for 
three  years. 

So  it  is  that  I  see  in  the  morning,  when  I  am  go- 

369 


PARIS  REBORN 

ing  to  my  office  at  eight  o'clock,  the  boys  of  Paris 
marching  through  the  streets  with  sticks  for  guns 
on  their  way  to  drill  in  the  Luxembourg.  For  an 
hour  before  school  the  boys  of  the  classes  of  1916  and 
1917  are  getting  ready  to  take  the  places  of  those 
who  have  fallen  on  the  Marne,  the  Aisne,  and  in 
the  North.  The  class  of  1914  has  already  been 
called  out.  The  class  of  1915  is  impatiently  await- 
ing its  summons. 

Jusqitau  bout!  To  the  bitter  end  France  in- 
tends to  fight.  But  the  price  of  victory  will  make 
1915  the  bloodiest  year  of  history. 

How  much  better  if  France  had  awakened  years 
ago  to  the  perils  of  the  future,  and  had  advocated  a 
law  of  three  children  in  each  family  rather  than  a 
law  of  three  years'  military  service.  Then  this  war 
would  not  have  been,  for  Germany  would  never 
have  dared  to  risk  it. 


XLII 

VERS  LA  GLOIRE! 

October  thirtieth. 

THE  Girl  and  I  came  up  from  the  river  through 
the  Rue  Saint-Genevieve  this  afternoon,  and 
went  into  Saint  Etienne-du-Mont.  The  women 
whom  the  Girl  is  hunting  are  frequently  to  be  found 
in  churches  these  days.  If  they  go  anywhere,  it  is 
only  to  God.  You  have  to  seek  them  out. 

Around  the  Tomb  of  Clovis  there  were  many  can- 
dles but  no  worshipers.  Saint  Genevieve  had  her 
devotees,  but  not  in  such  large  numbers  as  last 
month.  No  one  is  thinking  any  more  about  the 
Germans  coming  to  Paris,  and,  as  has  always  been 
the  case  since  the  world  began,  we  do  not  pray  much 
to  those  of  whose  peculiar  blessing  we  feel  no  need. 
To  most  people  praying  is  asking.  We  do  not  ask 
unless  we  want.  But  Saint  Antoine-de-Padua  was 
in  great  demand,  and  in  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin  no 
place  was  vacant.  It  was  not  Our  Lady  of  Vic- 
tories that  was  being  invoked,  but  Our  Lady  Pro- 
tectress of  Soldiers. 

When  we  left  the  church,  and  skirted  around  the 
371 


PARIS  REBORN 

Pantheon  to  pass  through  the  Rue  Soufflot,  we  no- 
ticed that  a  door  of  the  Pantheon  was  open.  We 
entered. 

The  crowd  was  different  from  any  that  we  had 
ever  seen  in  the  temple  "of  a  grateful  country  to 
her  sons."  Ordinarily  tourists  and  Parisians,  min- 
gled promiscuously,  make  the  rounds  of  the  mural 
paintings  that  depict  the  history  of  France  and 
Paris,  one  and  indivisible.  With  gay  laughter  and 
keen  interest  in  the  work  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and 
others,  they  are  moved  by  artistic  sentiment  or  his- 
toric imagination  to  outspoken  admiration  and  com- 
ment. 

This  afternoon  there  were  no  tourists.  There 
was  no  laughter  and  no  enthusiasm.  The  people 
seemed  to  have  come  just  for  something  to  do. 
Their  conversation  was  not  of  France  and  her  past 
and  present  glory,  but  of  sons  and  brothers  and 
fathers  who  were  "out  there."  This  vague  term  has 
become  common  parlance  since  the  war  began,  be- 
cause there  is  no  other  that  can  be  used.  None 
knows  where  loved  ones  are,  or  even  if  there  are 
loved  ones  still.  Fighting,  wounded,  prisoners, 
dead — which?  Who  knows? 

Some  who  had  come  home  were  there  this  after- 
noon. A  splendid  boy  not  more  than  twenty  years 
old  was  leaning  on  his  crutches  in  front  of  the  pic- 
ture of  Attila,  thinking  perhaps  of  the  Kaiser,  and 

372 


TteNt 


In  the  quarter  of  the  Pantheon 


VERS  LA  GLOIRE! 

whether  he  was  really  to  blame  for  the  leg  that  had 
been  lost.  Refugees  from  the  North  were  visit- 
ing the  Pantheon  for  the  first  time,  standing  before 
the  scenes  of  devastation  and  massacre  of  the  fifth 
century.  Did  the  paintings  awaken  last  month's 
memories  of  the  twentieth  century  counterpart 
through  which  they  themselves  had  lived? 

Before  we  had  gone  half  way  round,  a  feeling  of 
depression  gave  us  the  common  impulse  to  get  out 
into  the  open  air.  The  Pantheon  may  be  inspiring 
in  the  time  of  peace.  In  time  of  war  it  is  too  rem- 
iniscent of  the  hell  in  which  we  are  living. 

As  I  turned  toward  the  door,  the  Girl  took  my  arm 
and  led  me  up  what  ought  to  be  chancel  steps  to 
the  altarless  apse.  There  we  saw  a  contrast, 
Detaille's  group  Vers  la  Gloire!  on  the  wall,  and  a 
group  before  the  picture  which  showed  us  the  result 
of  that  unholy  aspiration  which  has  misguided  not 
only  France  but  the  world.  A  young  woman  in 
mourning  was  holding  a  baby  in  her  arms.  At  her 
skirts  three  other  children  were  clutching.  She 
looked  with  unseeing  eyes  at  Detaille's  masterpiece. 
Near  her  two  soldiers,  one  with  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
and  the  other  with  a  face  that  had  been  horribly  dis- 
figured by  the  bursting  of  a  shell,  were  gazing  apa- 
thetically at  the  imaginary  soldiers  of  France  win- 
ning imaginary  glory.  We  could  not  read  the 
woman's  mind.  We  could  not  hear  the  soldiers' 

375 


PARIS  REBORN 

words.  But  I  think  our  guess  was  not  far  from 
the  mark. 

"Did  he  die  for  glory"?  Is  this  the  glory  that  he 
won — my  babies  and  I — our  broken  life4?"  she  must 
have  been  thinking. 

"Put  the  artist  who  made  that  picture,  the  writers 
who  have  glorified  that  ideal,  and  the  politicians 
who  have  caused  this  war  into  the  trenches  where 
we  were,  and  let  them  face  life  maimed  as  we  are — 
is  it  glory1?"  they  were  probably  saying. 

"There  is  no  glory  in  it.  It  has  been  a  lie — it 
is  a  lie!"  The  Girl  was  almost  sobbing,  as  we 
brushed  by  the  legless  soldier  into  the  open. 

But  she  didn't  sob — not  quite.  For  she  had 
other  things  to  think  about.  She  took  from  her 
pocket  the  list  of  twenty  odd  women  whose  hus- 
bands are  at  the  war,  who  are  expecting  babies,  and 
who  have  no  money  for  nourishing  the  children  al- 
ready born — let  alone  buying  clothes  for  the  new- 
comer. She  looked  up  the  nearest  address  on  the 
list. 

We  left  behind  us  the  Pantheon  and  Detaille's 
conception,  and  went  to  find  the  next  victim  of 
glory! 


376 


XLIII 

RED    CROSS    AND    RED    TAPE 

November  tenth. 

OH,  that  some  Florence  Nightingale  would  arise 
in  France  to  break  down  the  bars  of  profes- 
sional jealousy  and  official  red  tape,  so  that  those 
who  are  giving  so  freely  their  lives  might  receive 
the  loving  care  that  is  their  due  when  they  are 
wounded  on-  the  battle-field ! 

Without  exception,  the  newspapers  of  the  French 
capital  have  taken  up  this  question.  They  have 
spoken  as  freely  as  the  censor  would  allow  them,  and 
have  bitterly  contrasted  the  inefficiency  of  the  Serv- 
ice de  Sante  Militaire  with  the  admirable  arrange- 
ments they  claimed  were  made  by  their  British 
allies. 

It  has  now  come  to  light  that  conditions  in  the 
British  army  in  regard  to  treatment  of  the  wounded 
are  not  a  bit  better  than  they  were  at  the  time  of 
the  Crimean  War.  There  is  the  same  fatal  clash 
between  army  surgeons  and  civil  surgeons,  between 
the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps  and  the  many  en- 

377 


PARIS  REBORN 

terprises  of  a  private  character  that  have  been  try- 
ing in  vain  to  cooperate  in  the  care  of  the 
wounded. 

Ten  days  ago,  I  heard  from  an  officer  who  re- 
turned from  the  front  heartrending  stories  of  the 
complete  breakdown  of  the  medical  service  at  Dun- 
kirk, Calais,  and  Boulogne.  He  spoke  of  the  hos- 
pitals and  field  ambulances  as  a  disgrace  to  civiliza- 
tion. What  he  told  me  seemed  incredible.  But 
since  then  I  have  had  it  from  so  many  different 
sources  that  I  can  no  longer  doubt  that  the  British 
army  surgeons  have  been  as  criminally  negligent  as 
those  of  the  French  army. 

It  seems  that  the  British  wounded  have  been  piled 
into  the  hospitals  of  the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps 
by  the  thousands,  that  they  have  been  allowed  to 
remain  for  days  with  their  bandages  untouched,  and 
that  the  condition  of  these  ambulances  is  one  of  un- 
speakable filth.  The  reason  of  all  this  is  the  lack 
of  surgeons,  nurses,  and  orderlies.  After  waiting 
in  agony  for  days,  many  of  the  wounded  have  been 
sent  to  England,  or  have  died. 

There  is,  of  course,  no  people  in  the  world,  not 
even  excepting  the  Americans,  who  are  so  generous 
and  so  willing  and  so  capable  in  the  organization 
of  relief  as  the  British.  Huge  sums  have  been 
given  for  Red  Cross  work  in  England.  The  volun- 
teers for  field  work,  amongst  whom  are  highly  skilled 

378 


RED  CROSS  AND  RED  TAPE 

physicians  and  splendidly  trained  nurses,  have 
reached  the  thousands.  Ambulances,  with  the  per- 
sonnel and  the  supplies  necessary  for  caring  for  an 
unlimited  number  of  wounded,  have  come  from  Lon- 
don to  Paris.  Some  of  the  finest  hotels  on  the 
Champs-Elysees  have  been  fitted  up  into  British 
auxiliary  hospitals.  But  at  no  time  since  the  war 
started  have  they  been  filled.  Most  of  the  phy- 
sicians and  nurses  have  sat  around  waiting  vainly 
for  the  opportunity  of  serving.  While  the  British 
Tommies  are  dying  in  the  trenches,  or  are  heaped 
up  in  the  improvised  hospitals  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C, 
those  who  are  willing  and  anxious  to  care  for  them 
have  been  systematically  ignored,  or,  if  they  insisted 
upon  pushing  themselves  into  the  army  circles,  have 
been  unmercifully  snubbed. 

Some  time  ago  I  heard  a  prominent  French  phy- 
sician, whose  surgical  skill  is  second  to  none  in  Paris, 
say  that  when  he  offered  his  services  he  was  received 
as  if  he  had  come  to  borrow  five  francs ! 

The  mentality  and  the  callous  caste  idea  and  the 
rigid  red  tape  of  the  British  medical  service  is  un- 
believable. 

Train  loads  of  British  wounded  have  been 
brought  right  to  the  gates  of  Paris,  have  waited 
for  hours  in  surburban  stations,  and  then  have  pulled 
out  again  for  parts  unknown,  while  the  British  Red 
Cross  hospitals  at  the  Astoria,  Claridge's,  the  Ma- 

379 


PARIS  REBORN 

jestic,  etc,  could  have  taken  them  all  in  had  they 
only  been  given  the  opportunity. 

The  other  day  a  young  Knglishman1  a  graduate 
of  Oxford  University,  who  is  here  as  a  volunteer  in 
an  ambulance  of  a  hundred  physicians,  dressers, 
nurses,  and  orderlies,  dined  with  us.  He  said  that 
the  ambulance  to  which  he  belonged  had  been  fitted 
out  lavishly  by  a  wealthy  peeress  in  London,  and 
that  its  physicians  were  men  of  wide  reputation. 
They  had  been  waiting  in  a  Paris  hotel  for  nearly 
four  weeks  to  get  permission  to  go  to  the  front. 
They  are  waiting  still,  and  the  wounded  are  dying. 

Shades  of  Scutari! 

In  both  armies,  as  well  as  in  the  Red  Cross  socie- 
ties, the  same  evils  of  mismanagement — inefficiency, 
jealous  desire  to  refuse  volunteer  aid  for  fear  of 
sharing  the  glory,  and  self-assumed  importance  of 
workers  enrolled — are  revealed  again  as  we  have 
seen  them  in  former  wars.  Among  the  army  sur- 
geons, there  is  that  same  unwillingness  to  cooperate 
with  civilians  that  Florence  Nightingale  struggled 
against  in  the  Crimean  War. 

Hospitals  in  Paris  are  waiting  for  their  wounded. 
Physicians  and  nurses  are  ready.  Large  sums  have 
been  expended.  But  the  wounded  do  no:  come.  Is 
it  mat  the  battles  are  less  severe  than  they  were  a 
few  weeks  ago?  Is  it  that  the  Government  still 
fears  the  possible  capture  of  Paris,  and  the  passing 

3*0 


RED  CROSS  AND  RED  TAPE 

into  the  hands  of  the  Germans  of  all  the  wounded, 
as  prisoners  of  war?  From  the  accounts  of  those 
who  come  from  the  front,  the  battles  seem  to  be  just 
as  fierce  as  ever,  and  from  many  signs  one  has  reason 
to  believe  that  the  Government  does  not  fear  any 
immediate  advance  upon  Paris. 

It  is  the  old  question  of  red  tape,  and  of  official 
and  professional  jealousy,  and  rivalry.  There  are 
plenty  of  wounded.  But  willing  hands  and  hearts 
are  not  allowed  to  be  of  service  in  alleviating  their 
suffering.  Men  are  still  dying  without  proper  medi- 
cal attention,  with  physicians  and  nurses  only  a  few 
miles  away,  willing  to  risk  life  to  carry  to  the  sol- 
diers on  the  battle-field  competent  and  skilful  care. 

When  this  war  is  over,  perhaps  before  it  is  over, 
the  medical  corps  of  the  contending  armies  will  be 
called  upon  to  answer  embarrassing  Questions.  Hu- 
man ingenuity,  so  diabolically  successful  in  destroy- 
ing human  life,  should  be  exercised  with  equal  suc- 
cess in  solving  the  problems  of  saving  human  life 
during  military  operations. 


381 


XLIV 

THE    FROUSSARDS    COME    HOME 

November  fifteenth. 

WERE  it  not  so  awfully  funny,  it  would  be 
pitiful  to  listen  to  one's  friends  who  are  re- 
turning in  increasing  numbers  from  London,  from 
Bordeaux,  from  Marseilles,  and  from  Switzerland. 
When  you  meet  them  in  church,  at  the  club,  in  the 
cafe,  on  the  boulevard,  of  course  you  act  as  if  they 
had  never  been  away  from  town  at  all.  But  some 
evil  spirit  compels  them  to  bring  up  the  subject 
themselves.  You  have  to  listen.  And,  as  there  is 
an  anxious  questioning  note  in  their  voice,  you  have 
to  agree  that  they  were  called  away  during  the  first 
week  of  September  by  urgent  business  in  London, 
that  they  had  to  go  to  Havre  or  Marseilles  because 
they  could  not  risk,  in  their  line,  being  cut  off  from 
cable  and  mail  communication  with  the  outside 
world,  or  that  their  presence  at  Bordeaux  was  indis- 
pensable to  the  national  safety.  The  Government 
could  not  have  got  along  without  them.  Certainly 
not! 

Then  there  were  those  who  had  not  the  excuse  of 
382 


THE  FROUSSARDS  COME  HOME 

business.  In  the  first  week  of  September  they 
yielded  to  an  irresistible  longing  to  taste  good  old 
roast  beef,  "for  you  know  the  French  can't  cook  a 
roast."  Now  they  are  coming  back  from  England, 
having  discovered  that  the  English  "never  do  give 
you  vegetables  other  than  perfectly  naked  boiled 
potatoes  and  water-logged  cabbage." 

But  the  reason  for  the  September  exit  from  Paris 
and  the  November  exit  from  London  is  neither  in 
business  nor  in  food.  When  you  get  down  to  rocks, 
it  is — the  Germans. 

How  one  feels  about  the  Germans  is  largely  a 
matter  of  imagination.  I  have  come  to  this  con- 
clusion after  much  puzzling  over  the  actions  of 
many  Parisians.  If  a  man  is  all  the  time  imagining 
that  a  bomb  is  going  to  drop  from  an  aeroplane  right 
on  top  of  his  head,  or  that  the  shells  from  the  Ger- 
man siege  guns  will  explode  in  his  immediate  vi- 
cinity, he  cannot  be  blamed  for  feeling  uneasy.  It 
is  altogether  natural  that  nervous  and  excitable  peo- 
ple should  get  away  from  the  possible  danger  of  a 
bombardment.  They  got  away  from  Paris  because 
they  feared  that  the  Germans  would  bombard  this 
city.  They  are  getting  away  from  London  now  and 
back  to  Paris  because  they  think  that  the  German 
effort  has  been  diverted  from  Paris  to  London.  The 
burden  of  their  conversation  is  no  longer  the 
irresistible  horde  of  barbarians  at  Compiegne,  Chan- 

383 


PARIS  REBORN 

tilly,  and  Meaux,  but  the  Zeppelins  that  are  being 
manufactured  at  Brussels  and  Antwerp,  and  the  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  submarines  that  are  going 
to  send  the  British  fleet  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  So 
Paris  is  pretty  good  after  all. 

One  may  not  have  control  of  his  nerves,  and  may 
yield  to  the  panic  of  his  imagination.  That  is  per- 
fectly comprehensible.  We  are  not  all  built  the 
same  way.  And  who  is  more  contemptible  than  the 
man  who  boasts  of  a  moral  superiority  which  is  due 
entirely  to  physical  causes'? 

But  there  are  many  froussards  who  have  not  the 
excuse — the  perfectly  valid  excuse — of  neurasthenia. 
Have  they  not  fallen  short  in  civic  duty,  in  pa- 
triotism, by  showing  a  lack  of  faith  in  those  who 
were  defending  their  homes? 

The  panic-stricken  crossed  bridges  before  they 
came  to  them.  They  accepted  as  a  certain  future 
event  what  was  only  a  remote  possibility.  Where 
they  could  not  be  blamed  for  fearing  that  the  bombs 
would  hit  them,  they  could  be  blamed  for  not  hav- 
ing faith  in  the  ability  of  the  defending  armies  to 
keep  the  siege  guns  from  getting  near  enough  to 
send  their  shells  into  the  streets  of  Paris.  Where 
there  was  lack  of  faith  two  months  ago  in  the  allied 
armies,  there  is  lack  of  faith  to-day  in  the  British 
fleet,  and  in  the  armies  on  the  Yser. 

The  froussards  are  coming  back!     It  is  a  curious 

384 


THE  FROUSSARDS  COME  HOME 

sight.  We  saw  them  madly  piling  into  freight 
trains,  after  having  waited  forty-eight  hours  in  line 
to  purchase  first-class  tickets.  We  saw  them  leav- 
ing in  autos,  in  wagons,  in  river  boats,  for  which 
they  paid  fabulous  prices.  They  were  inextricably 
mixed  up  with  their  baggage,  enjoying  emigrant  ac- 
commodation at  millionaire  prices.  It  was  a  case 
of  sauve  qui  pent.  For  the  Germans  were  coming 
to  Paris,  and  they  had  no  desire  either  to  feed  on 
cats  and  dogs  and  horses  *  and  rats,  or  to  sit  in  their 
cellars  while  the  shells  burst  overhead.  Now  they 
are  coming  back ! 

In  the  railway  stations  two  opposing  floods  meet 
each  other.  The  refugees  from  Amiens,  Com- 
piegne,  Chantilly,  Senlis,  Soissons,  and  Meaux  are 
going  home;  the  refugees  from  Paris  are  coming 
home.  But  the  former  are  different  from  the  lat- 
ter. Those  who  are  going  home  fled  from  the  sight 
and  the  sound  of  the  Germans :  the  Paris  froussards 
fled  from  the  thought  of  the  Germans. 

Honi  soil  qui  mal  y  pense.     Has  any  one  the  right 

1  Horse  meat  isn't  bad  at  all.  Lots  of  Parisians  never  eat  any 
other  kind.  They  cannot  afford  to,  or  do  not  choose  to  afford  to. 
The  horse  is  a  herbivorous  animal,  after  all,  and  horror  of  eating 
him  is  purely  imaginary  and  unreasonable.  Just  for  fun  I  have 
brought  up  the  question  of  horse-flesh  over  the  famous  hors 
d'ceuvres  at  the  Brasserie  Universelle,  and  have  been  amused  to 
see  my  tete-a-tete  shudder  at  the  thought  while  she  was  consuming 
with  gusto  a  certain  delicious  sausage — equine  in  origin!  Beati 
ignor  antes! 

385 


PARIS  REBORN 

to  pass  judgment  on  the  froussards?  Perhaps  not. 
We  are  free  agents.  When  it  is  a  question  of  the 
unwritten  code,  we  must  decide  for  ourselves,  and 
let  others  decide  for  themselves.  But  we  who  did 
not  despair  of  the  Republic,  and  who  remained 
quietly  at  home  attending  to  our  business  and  living 
our  normal  life  have  saved  ourselves  much  expense 
and  discomfort.  And  we  do  not  have  to  explain  to 
our  friends  why  it  was  necessary  at  a  certain  par- 
ticular moment  to  leave  Paris. 

The  froussards  may  have  come  back  too  soon. 
For  we  cannot  be  sure  as  yet  that  the  Germans  will 
not  make  this  week  another  determined  effort  to 
reach  Paris.  The  question  we  are  asking  ourselves 
now  is  whether  our  friends  who  have  made  the  jour- 
ney to  the  country  and  back  again  to  Paris,  will  once 
more  feel  it  necessary  to  pay  a  thousand  francs  for 
an  automobile,  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  for 
a  seat  in  a  river  boat  to  Rouen. 

The  fortunes  of  war  may  change  again,  and  we 
may  once  more  hear  the  German  cannon  at  the  gates 
of  Paris.  It  may  even  be  that  the  German  General 
Staff  will  decide  to  take  a  gambler's  chance  and 
stake  all  upon  the  capture  of  Paris.  Is  one  wise  in 
feeling  that  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  has  been  de- 
cisive in  relieving  Paris  from  the  German  menace? 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  froussards  seem  to  be 
most  optimistic  the  moment  the  immediate  cause  of 

386 


THE  FROUSSARDS  COME  HOME 

their  fears  is  removed.  The  two  million  Parisians 
who  stayed  quietly  at  home  and  awaited  the  issue 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  did  not  exult  in  that  vic- 
tory. There  was  no  great  popular  demonstration 
of  joy  in  Paris.  This  is  a  fact  that  cannot  be  too 
strongly  set  forth.  The  work  of  defending  the  city 
was  still  pushed  with  feverish  haste.  Even  now, 
two  months  later,  every  night  we  still  see  the  search- 
lights sweeping  the  skies  in  their  watch  for  aero- 
planes and  Zeppelins. 

The  "sowers  of  panic"  are  the  ones  who  are  now 
absolutely  certain  that  all  goes  well.  It  is  from  the 
froussards  coming  home  that  we  hear  exclamations 
of  delight  and  confident  assurances  that  the  Ger- 
mans have  been  crushed. 

This  evening,  at  the  club,  a  number  of  well-in^ 
formed  and  thoughtful  men  were  discussing  the  new 
phase  of  "siege  operations"  which  the  war  seems  to 
have  taken.  One  was  maintaining  that,  even  if  the 
German  offensive  was  definitely  checked,  an  offen- 
sive on  our  part,  at  the  present  moment,  would  have 
little  chance  of  success  against  the  German  lines. 
"Without  conscription  in  England,"  he  said,  "I  fear 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  drive  the  Germans  out  of 
France — much  less  recover  Belgium." 

A  Samson  of  a  froussard  had  just  turned  from  the 
billiard  table.  As  he  put  up  his  cue,  he  caught  the 
last  sentence. 

387 


PARIS  REBORN 

With  a  lordly  wave  of  the  hand,  he  pooh-poohed 
our  fears. 

"You  fellows  are  talking  rot,"  he  broke  in.  "Be- 
fore Easter  we  shall  be  in  Berlin." 

The  man  whom  he  interrupted  took  off  his  glasses, 
and  rubbed  them  with  his  handkerchief.  Then  he 
readjusted  them,  and  gazed  at  the  froussard. 

"Is  that  the  way  they  feel  at  Bordeaux*?"  he  asked. 


388 


XLV 

THE  CHRISTMAS   MIDNIGHT   MASS  AT  SAINT  SULPICE 

December  twenty- fifth. 

1  RETURNED  to  Paris  last  night,  hurrying 
across  Europe  for  Christmas  Eve  with  my  fam- 
ily, after  my  first  absence  from  home  since  the  day 
that  war  broke  out. 

During  these  past  three  weeks  I  have  been  in  Ly- 
ons, Geneva,  Lausanne,  Berne,  Zurich,  Stuttgart, 
Berlin,  Munich,  Salzburg,  Vienna,  Buda-Pesth,  and 
Innsbruck — a  flying  trip  through  the  heart  of  the 
enemy's  country.  I  came  back  with  a  heavy  heart 
on  Christmas  Eve,  for  I  realized  now  that  the  war 
would  be  long,  and  that  the  suffering  of  these  past 
months  is  not  to  be  compared  with  that  through 
which  Europe  has  to  pass  during  the  year  1915.  My 
many  trains  took  me  through  no  railway  station  on 
the  platform  of  which  I  did  not  see  women  in  tears. 
Women  in  tears — that  is  the  whole  of  this  war  epit- 
omized in  three  words. 

Travel-stained  and  weary,  I  left  the  war  and  its 
problems  behind  me  when  I  entered  the  door  of  my 
home  last  night,  and  saw  my  children  around  their 

389 


PARIS  REBORN 

Christmas  tree.  Three  little  tots  for  whom  I  can 
hope  no  greater  blessing  than  that  they  grow  up  in 
the  midst  of  a  world  that  does  not  know,  that  does 
not  experience,  what  the  world  knows  and  experi- 
ences to-day.  As  I  look  at  them,  that  is  my  thought. 
But  there  it  is,  the  war  coming  in  again !  I  do  not 
leave  it  at  the  door,  even  on  Christmas  Eve,  the  fete 
of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

Then  come  the  dinner  guests,  the  English  mer- 
chant and  his  wife,  who  have  been  heavily  hit  by 
bills  unpaid  in  Germany;  the  Modiste,  whose  hats 
are  not  selling  this  winter  and  whose  January  rent 
is  a  problem,  for  all  her  men-folk  are  at  the  war; 
the  Sewing- Woman  who  would  have  been  married 
in  September  had  not  her  lover  been  killed  in  August 
in  the  retreat  from  Belgium;  the  two  Russian  girls, 
students  at  the  Sorbonne,  who  have  been  cut  off  from 
home  since  the  war  began  and  are  now  trying  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together  on  a  franc  a  day  by 
sewing  at  an  ouvroir;  the  Greek  Musician  from  Con- 
stantinople who  fears  that  his  father  and  brother 
may  have  been  killed  by  the  Turks — and  so  on! 
With  each  I  greet  comes  the  thought  and  shadow  of 
THE  WAR. 

But  the  frolic  with  the  children,  followed  by  as- 
sociation around  the  dinner-table,  brings  good  cheer. 
And  good  cheer  dispels  gloom.  Our  party  is  not  an 
unhappy  one. 

390 


THE  CHRISTMAS  MIDNIGHT  MASS 

It  was  after  eleven  when  our  guests  began  to  go. 
The  Girl  and  I  did  not  urge  them  to  stay  longer. 
We  knew  what  difficulty  those  who  lived  in  Auteuil 
and  Passy  would  have  in  finding  a  taxi  and  in 
persuading  the  chauffeur  to  take  them  away  over 
there  across  the  city.  And  then,  we  wanted  to  go 
to  the  Midnight  Mass  at  St.  Sulpice.  We  set  up 
our  first  home  in  the  dear  old  Rue  Servandoni,  under 
the  shadow  of  St.  Sulpice,  and  have  never  lost  our 
affection  for  our  old  parish  church.  Midnight  mass 
at  St.  Sulpice  is  to  us  as  much  an  institution  as  our 
Christmas  tree. 

When  we  had  bid  our  last  guest  Godspeed,  and 
had  assured  ourselves  that  three  curly  heads  were 
peacefully  resting  on  three  little  white  pillows,  we 
slipped  out  into  the  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse, 
and  hurried  through  the  Rue  Vavin  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg, quickening  our  steps  almost  to  a  run  in  the 
dark  streets,  for  fear  lest  we  be  too  late  to  get  inside 
the  church.  St.  Sulpice  is  one  of  the  largest  build- 
ings in  the  world,  but  is  never  large  enough  for  the 
Christmas  midnight  mass. 

We  were  in  time.  The  four  strokes  of  half  past 
eleven  were  just  sounding  as  we  entered  the  church. 
The  seats  were  filled,  and  the  aisles  were  filling. 
But  we  managed  to  push  our  way  through  the  crowd 
to  a  certain  spot  that  has  precious  associations  for 
us,  and  is  at  the  same  time  a  vantage  point  to  those 

391 


PARIS  REBORN 

who  know  St.  Sulpice.  For  we  could  see  the  high 
altar,  the  choir  in  the  apse,  and  look  down  through 
the  nave  of  faces  turned  in  our  direction  up  to  the 
organ  loft  where  Maitre  Widor  still  sits  on  state 
occasions. 

The  silence  of  the  expectant  thousands,  at  this 
moment  if  ever  in  their  lives  in  a  worshipful  mood, 
was  broken  only  by  constant  footfalls  on  the  stone 
floors,  and  the  occasional  whispered  "pardon"  of  one 
who  tried  to  push  his  way,  as  we  had  done,  from 
the  doors  towards  the  choir. 

A  few  minutes  before  twelve,  the  verger  mounted 
the  high  altar  to  light  those  candles  that  have  not 
yet  been  profaned  by  electric  globes.  Real  wax  and 
flickering  light — how  rare  that  now  is. 

As  the  first  stroke  of  midnight  from  the  bell  in 
the  north  tower  reverberated  through  the  church,  the 
priest  and  acolytes  came  into  the  chancel.  When 
the  twelfth  stroke  announced  the  new  day,  Maitre 
Widor  bent  over  the  organ.  It  was  Adam's  Noel 
that  he  began  to  play.  A  tenor  voice  rose  in  the 
stillness. 

Minuit'  chretien!    C'est  1'heure  solennelle 
Ou  I'homme  Dieu  descendit  jusqu'a  nous, 
Pour   effacer   la  tache   originelle 
Et  de  son  pere  arreter  le  courroux. 
Le  monde  entier  tresaille  d'esperance 
A  cette  nuit  qui  lui  donne  un  Sauveur. 
392 


THE  CHRISTMAS  MIDNIGHT  MASS 

Peuple  a  genoux,  attends  ta  deliverance, 
Noel,  Noel,  void  le  Redempteur. 

The  priest  had  opened  his  missal,  and  the  vast 
congregation  was  following  him  in  the  silent  mass. 
A  wonderful  chorus,  worthy  inheritor  of  three  cen- 
turies of  glorious  Sulpician  tradition,  repeated  the 
last  two  lines  of  the  verse. 

Then  the  soloist  began  again,  accompanied  by  the 
soaring  obligate  of  a  violin. 

De  notre  foi  que  la  lumiere  ardente 
Nous  guide  tous  au  berceau  de  1'enfant, 
Comme  autrefois  une  etoile  brillante 
Y  conduisit  les  chefs  de  1'Orient. 
Le  Roi  des  rois,  ne  dans  un  humble  creche. 
Puissants  du  jour,  fiers  de  votre  grandeur, 
A  votre  orgeuil — c'est  de  la  qu'un  dieu  preche: 
Courbez  vos  fronts  devant  le  Redempteur! 

The  Girl  had  gripped  my  arm  hard.  All  around 
were  crying,  and  she  was.  I  looked  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  see,  and  yet  seemed  not  to  see,  out  over 
the  faces  turned  towards  the  altar.  The  third  verse 
had  started.  The  singer  was  pleading  with  us 
again  to  bow  our  heads  with  joy  before  the  Christ 
Child  who  had  come  to  bring  peace. 

Never  had  I  seen  so  few  men  at  a  Christmas  mass. 
Aside  from  the  white  haired,  most  of  the  masculine 
worshipers  were  in  uniform  and  wounded.  How 

393 


PARIS  REBORN 

many  among  those  who  had  gathered  here  to  hail  the 
advent  of  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  among  men 
had  given  their  sons  or  their  husbands  or  their  fathers 
to  France  during  these  past  five  months! 

Only  three  days  ago  I  stood  on  the  Kartnerring  in 
Vienna  and  watched  the  limousines  purring  softly 
up  to  the  steps  of  the  Opera  House,  and  the  gay  and 
laughing  men  and  women  in  evening  dress  coming 
out  of  the  house  of  song  and  laughter.  Only  a  week 
ago  I  sat  in  a  cafe  at  Berlin  and  watched  the  mid- 
night riot  of  drinking  men  and  their  companions. 
Oh!  Paris,  Paris!  Will  they  ever  have  cause  to 
feel  as  you  feel  to-night1?  Are  there  those  in  the 
world  who  may  make  suffering  and  not  suffer*? 

Silence !  The  music  has  stopped.  A  moment  of 
stillness.  Then  the  tinkling  of  the  acolyte's  bell 
at  the  high  altar,  followed  by  the  tinkling  of  other 
bells  in  the  dozen  chapels  of  the  apse  and  nave 
where  other  priests  are  celebrating  silent  masses. 

The  elevation  of  the  cup !  Then  the  triumphant 
chorus,  bursting  forth  into  Adeste  Fideles. 

When  the  last  line  of  the  hymn  of  fifteen  centuries 
of  hallowed  Christmas  usage  has  been  sung,  the  mass 
is  finished.  The  communicants  press  towards  the 
rail. 

We  turn  to  go.  Mockery,  illusion,  delusion — 
what  means  this  ceremony  in  Paris  to-night?  A 
thousand  who  were  here  last  Christmas  Eve  are 

394 


THE  CHRISTMAS  MIDNIGHT  MASS 

dead :  and  another  thousand  are  in  the  trenches  only 
fifty  miles  away,  shooting  their  fellow-men  and  be- 
ing shot  by  them.  But  these  people  have  got  some- 
thing from  this  midnight  mass.  I  can  feel  that.  I 
can  feel  it  in  the  silence  of  the  Girl  at  my  side,  in 
her  tears,  in  her  smile. 

We  go  out  into  the  dark.  As  I  button  my  over- 
coat, I  see  the  Jesuit  Father  standing  by  a  pillar  of 
the  great  porch.  We  pass  close  by  him  to  reach  the 
steps. 

"Merry  Christmas !"  he  said. 

"Merry  Christmas !"  responded  the  Girl. 

"But  merry — why  merry  ?"  I  asked. 

"Happiness  for  the  Christ  Child,"  he  answered. 
"A  happiness  that  drowns  all  sorrow:  for  it  trans- 
cends all  sorrow,  just  as  God's  goodness  transcends 
our  weakness.  Merry  Christmas  for  you,  for 
France,  for  the  world!" 

I  looked  at  him.  His  shoulders  were  thrown 
back,  his  fine  face  from  forehead  to  beard  was  show- 
ing forth  Christ  in  him,  the  Hope  of  Glory. 

What  the  Girl  had  received  inside,  I  received 
now. 

"Merry  Christmas !"  I  said. 

THE    END 


395 


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